973.7L63    Davies,  William  W 
H3d289t 

Transfusion 


LINCOLN  ROOM 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 


MEMORIAL 
the  Class  of  1901 

founded  by 

HARLAN  HOYT  HORNER 

and 

HENRIETTA  CALHOUN  HORNER 


TRANSFUSION 


By 


W.  W.  DAVIES 


2$>(*~nj      $££m* 


*<&*   *£*<&    :*$*»    £*    to******     ^ 


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TRANSFUSION 

By 

W.  W.  DAVIES 


JOHN  P.  MORTON  &  COMPANY 

Incorporated 

Louisville.  Kentucky 
1923 


Copyright  1923  by 
W.  W.  DAVTES 


All  Rights  Reserved 


TRANSFUSION 


Scene  I. 
BOYHOOD 

A  boy,  about  seven  years  old,  in  a  Kentucky  log  cabin  in  1816.  He 
is  seated  by  the  fire,  straining  his  eyes  and  body  in  pouring  over  a  blue- 
back  book.  The  scene  is  one  of  primitive  poverty  and  hardship.  The  boy's 
mother,  a  delicate  woman  possessed  of  the  face  and  bearing  of  a  mystic 
and  showing  traces  of  fineness  not  entirely  associated  with  the  wilderness 
and  settlements,  spins  at  her  wheel  in  the  shadows.  The  only  light  is  that 
from  the  fire  in  the  crude  fireplace.  The  mother  quits  her  spinning,  and 
coming  to  the  hearth,  bends  over  the  boy.  He  looks  up  smiling.  She 
touches  him  lovingly  on  the  head  and  starts  to  mend  the  fire.  The  boy 
springs  up  and,  mending  the  fire  himself,  gently  forces  her  to  a  seat  on  a 
rude  stool  by  the  hearth.  The  wind  blows  and  a  winter's  rain  beats  against 
the  low  roof  of  the  cabin.  The  woman  draws  her  thin,  faded  wrap  close 
about  her  and  comes  a  little  nearer  the  fire.  The  boy  bends  again  over  his 
book  and  haltingly  reads  aloud. 

Boy:  "The  -  man  -  then  -  (p-e-1,  pel,  there's  your  pel;  t-e-d,  ted, 
there's  your  ted)  pelted  -  the  -  bad  -  boy  -  with  -  stones  -  and  -  the  -  boy  - 
soon  -  came  -  down  -  from  -  the  -  tree  -  and  -  the  -  man  -  then  -  said  -  if  -  you 
-  would  -  not  -  come  -  down  -  by  -  kind  -  words  -  and  -  by  -  soft  -  turf  -  that  - 
I  -  threw  -  at  -  you  -  I  -  was  -  sure  -  that  -  stones  -  would  -  bring  -  you  - 
down."  Mother,  I  be  minded  that  the  man  who  writ  this  book  -  a  Mister 
(W-e-b,  web,  there's  your  web;  s-t-e-r,  ster,  there's  your  ster)  Webster, 
was  a  wise  man  about  handlin'  boys. 

Mother:  He  writ  a  fine  blue-back  book,  an'  it  brings  good  learnin' 
to  these  settlements.  But,  Abe,  we  be  far  from  the  places  where  they 
make  books,  an'  more  is  the  reason  why  we  should  read  an'  live  by  the 
word  of  the  Holy  Book,  here  on  the  fire-shelf  (taking  her  Bible  from  the 
rude  shelf),  while  we  wait  an'  we  seek  for  the  comin'  of  more  books  an' 
more  learnin'.  There  be  many  books  in  old  Virginia,  where  Thomas, 
your  father,  an'  many  of  my  own  kin  come  from,  but  great  mountains  an' 
many  miles  lie  between  Kentuck'  an'  that  land.  Some  of  my  kin  an'  the 
Lincoln  kin  are  people  of  books,  an',  if  we  bide  in  these  parts  till  next 
spring,  they  are  comin'  along  the  Daniel  Boone  trace  to  these  clearin's  an' 
bring  me  a  book  called  The  Pilgrim's  Progress  an'  one  called  Robinson 


Crusoe.  I  am  hopin'  too  that  they'll  bring  a  book  teachin'  'rithmetic  so 
that  I  may  start  you  on  the  long  road  to  the  "rule-of-three."  Abe,  that's 
a  road  longer  an'  rockier  than  the  Wilderness  Road.  But,  my  son  (again 
gently  touching  his  head),  if  God  spares  me,  I'll  go  along  the  "rule-of- 
three"  road  with  you.  It  won't  do  to  go  too  fast  about  books.  There's 
such  a  thing  as  gettin'  beyond  the  point  of  understandin',  an'  then  a  weari- 
ness of  the  flesh  sets  in.  The  blessed  Bible  an'  your  blue-back  Webster 
must  do  for  us  now.  But  there's  another  book  that  Parson  Wilkins  took 
from  his  saddlebags  on  his  last  circuit  an'  gave  to  me  for  you  when  you 
grow  into  a  man. 

Boy:  Mother!  another  book?  Where  is  it?  May  I  see  it?  I 
promise !  I  promise !  not  to  touch  it  till  I  grow  into  a  man.  You  show  it 
to  me  an'  hide  it  away  again.    Is  it  in  this  cabin? 

Mother:  Yes,  Abe,  it's  a  little  book  with  only  about  ten  pages,  an' 
I  keep  it  right  here  in  the  back  of  the  Scriptures  (indicating).  It  is  called 
(displaying  the  pamphlet)  "The  Unanimous  Declaration  of  the  Thirteen 
United  States  of  America,"  an'  the  name  of  Thomas  Jefferson  is  on  the 
cover.  It  must  be  a  true  book,  for  a  Lincoln,  one  of  your  father's  blood, 
went  with  Light-Horse  Lee  to  Yorktown,  an'  a  Hanks,  one  of  my  blood, 
went  with  Shelby  to  King's  Mountain  to  fight  to  make  it  true. 

Boy:  Mother!  Mother!  I  keep  my  promise — I  won't  touch  the 
little  book  now — you  just  read  me  some  of  it — some  of  the  first  part — 
won't  you?    I'll  wait  for  the  rest  till  I'm  a  man. 

Mother:  Hold  up  a  pine  knot,  Abe,  an'  give  me  a  light  an'  I'll  be 
readin'  a  few  lines.  But  I  shall  pray  that  your  young  brains  won't  addle 
over  what  a  great  man  wrote  an'  brave  men  died  for. 

Boy:  There,  Mother,  this  is  the  fattest  pine  knot  on  Nolin  Creek 
(holding  up  a  torch  from  the  fireplace). 

Mother:  The  little  book  says  this:  "We  hold  these  truths  to  be 
self-evident — that  all  men  are  created  equal;  that  they  are  endowed  by 
their  Creator  with  certain  un— \m--xma--una\i-unalienable  rights;  that 
among  these  are  life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness."  There,  boy ! 
That's  enough,  or  you  won't  sleep  for  the  big  words  an'  ideas  in  your  head. 

Boy:  There's  an  awful,  mighty,  big,  long  word  in  there  that  Mr. 
Thomas  Jefferson  writ,  Mother,  an'  I  am  thinkin'  maybe  I  might  spell  an' 
line  it  out,  like  Mr.  Zachariah  Riney  teaches,  if  you'll  speak  it  again. 

Mother:  Un-a-li-en-a-ble,  unalienable.  Now,  son,  make  your 
try,  like  Mr.  Riney  teaches  you,  an'  spell  unalienable. 

Boy:  Here  goes  (setting  himself  for  the  effort)  :  u-n,  un,  there's 
your  un;  a,  there's  your  a;  un-a;  1-i,  li,  there's  your  li;  un-a-li;  e-n,  en, 
there's  your  en;  un-a-li-en ;  a,  there's  your  a;  un-a-li-en-a ;  b-u-double  1,  bull, 
there's  your  bull;  un-a-li-en-a-bull!  Well,  Mother,  in  the  wind-up  part, 
what's  this  big  word  got  to  do  with  bull  an'  what  has  bull  got  to  do  with  it? 
Did  Mr.  Thomas  Jefferson  raise  cattle,  an'  did  that  Lincoln  who  fought  at 


Yorktown  an'  that  Hanks  who  fought  at  King's  Mountain  do  their  fightin' 
to  keep  somebody  from  stealin'  these  cattle  an'  robbin'  him  of  his  bull? 

Mother:  No,  my  son,  the  word  means — means — means — it  means 
holy  and  sacred.  Now,  boy,  draw  your  pallet  close  to  the  fire  an'  get  ready 
to  rest  your  addled  brains.  I  must  wait  up  'gainst  your  father's  comin' 
home  in  the  f reezin'  rain  from  the  buildin'  of  his  flatboat  below  Elizabeth- 
town  on  Rollin'  Fork.  I  must  have  the  fire  burnin'  and  somethin'  boilin' 
for  him  in  the  pot.  You  know,  Abe,  when  the  sun  comes  up  in  the  morn- 
in',  out  yonder  toward  the  Virginia  land  where  we  come  from,  your  father 
sits  in  the  shade  an'  is  mighty  silent,  but,  when  the  great  red,  burning  ball 
sinks  down  in  the  west  toward  the  lands  where  the  prairies  are  an'  the 
buffaloes  run  an'  all  creation  stretches!  stretches!  stretches!  farther  on,  he 
is  a  changed  man,  an'  we  are  like  to  have  to  hold  him  lest  he  move  on  toward 
the  goin'-down  place  of  the  sun.  So,  Abe,  when  the  spring  floods  come, 
your  father  is  aimin'  to  load  us  in  his  flatboat  an'  make  down  Rollin'  Fork 
to  the  Ohio,  an'  down  that  big  river  to  a  stream  that  we  can  climb  toward 
the  prairie  lands  and  the  great  West.  Your  father  be  mighty  busy  with 
the  makin'  of  that  boat  now. 

Boy:  Mr.  Riney  told  me  'bout  what  Father  be  plannin'  an'  doin', 
an'  he  said  that  a  rollin'  stone  gathers  no  moss.  I  wonder  what  he  meant ! 
Ought  a  stone  to  gather  moss?  Don't  they  have  moss  out  there  toward 
the  prairies,  or  do  the  buffaloes  eat  it  all  up?  An',  Mother,  the  sun,  as  it 
goes  down,  has  a  mighty  drawin'  power  for  me  too,  just  like  it  did  for  our 
kin,  old  Daniel  Boone.  Mr.  Riney  and  Parson  Wilkins  say  that  Boone  has 
gone  on  an'  on  till  he  has  crossed  all  the  prairies,  an'  he  now  camps  and 
hunts  in  a  lonely  land  not  far  from  rivers  that  run  down  into  a  great  sea 
that  few  men  have  ever  seen.  I  be  minded  that  Boone's  Wilderness  Road 
does  not  end  in  Kentuck'.  Why  should  any  road  end,  if  there  is  somethin' 
beyond?  A  big  enough  stone,  covered  with  enough  moss  an'  lyin'  across  a 
road,  makes  a  blind  road. 

Mother:  But,  Abe,  it's  your  bed  an'  the  restin'  of  your  brains  in 
sleep  that  I'm  thinkin'  of.  So,  boy,  put  your  pallet  down  here  close  to  the 
fire  an'  I'll  sit  and  card  some  wool  an'  wait  the  comin'  of  your  wet  an' 
frozen  father  from  Rollin'  Fork. 

The  boy  draws  his  wretched  pallet  near  the  hearth.  He  puts  his 
arms  around  his  mother  and  kisses  her.  Then  he  kneels  down  at  her  knee 
in  silent  prayer,  while  her  hand  rests  gently  upon  his  head.  He  throws 
himself  down  to  sleep,  and  his  mother  puts  a  great,  warm  skin  over  him. 
This  is  the  only  warm-looking  thing  in  the  cabin. 

Boy:  No!  no!  Mother,  I'm  like  to  melt  with  this  big  skin  over  me. 
It's  for  you,  Mother,  for  you ! 

Mother:  Abe,  do  as  I  bid  you!  I'm  up  an'  about  till  your  father 
comes  an'  the  skin  would  hamper  me.    To  sleep,  boy ! 

Boy  (half  rising  on  his  bed) :     Mother,  will  the  kin  from  Virginia 


get  here  in  the  spring  with  those  books  about  the  Pilgrim  an'  Crusoe  an' 
the  'rithmetic  before  we  rollin'  stones  roll  down  Rollin'  Fork  to  the  rollin' 
Ohio  on  our  way  to  the  rollin'  prairies? 

Mother:     I'm  pray  in'  so,  Abe,  but  you! — go! — to! — sleep! 

Boy  (drowsily) :  I  don't  see  yet  what  bull  was  doin'  in  that  big 
word — I  don't  see — but  maybe — maybe  the  Virginia  kin  can  get  the  Pil- 
grim an'  Crusoe — yes,  get  them  to  figure  it  out  plain  by  the  'rithmetic  how 
it  is  that  all  prairies — yes,  prairies — are  created  equal,  an'  Father  an' 
Mother  an'  little  Abe  can  roll  an'  drift — an'  drift — an' 

The  boy  is  asleep.  The  mother  mends  the  fire  and  draws  her  thin 
shawl  closer  and  sits  wearily  carding  wool  by  the  side  of  the  fireplace.  She 
is  seated  on  a  low  stool.  The  wintry  wind  and  freezing  rain  almost  shake 
the  cabin.  The  mother  is  tired  and  bravely  tries  to  bear  up.  At  last  she 
leans  over  upon  a  rude  chest  near  her  and  falls  asleep.  All  is  quiet  and 
silent.  Suddenly  everything  is  dark.  Then  quickly  a  mystic  panel  or  door 
in  the  wall  opens,  and  there  is  visible,  in  a  strange  brilliance,  this  group- 
figure:  The  head  of  a  bull  full-faced;  three  luminous  books  between  the 
horns,  The  Pilgrim's  Progress,  Robinson  Crusoe,  and  the  Arithmetic;  the 
Pilgrim  and  Crusoe,  on  either  side  of  the  bull's  head,  each  grasping  a  horn; 
and  the  Virginia  kin,  a  gentleman  and  a  lady  of  quality,  standing  on  either 
side  just  behind  the  other  two,  by  gestures,  presenting  the  group-figure. 
The  group-figure  is  immovable,  silent,  mystic.  A  half-light  is  in  the  rest 
of  the  cabin.  There  lies  the  slumbering  boy  (by  means  of  an  identical 
figure)  in  the  same  position  on  the  pallet,  yet  this  boy  Abe,  at  the  same 
time,  is  standing  erect  and  then  slowly  and  silently  advancing  toward  the 
place  of  the  group-figure.  The  figures  in  the  group,  constituting  the  vision, 
do  not  move  or  speak,  nor  does  the  advancing  boy  speak.  The  floor  of  the 
cabin  creaks  as  he  walks.  He  reaches  the  vision-group  and  takes  the  three 
luminous  books  on  the  bull's  head  and  presses  them  to  his  breast.  He 
hastens  to  the  firelight  and  opens  one  of  the  books  in  wonderment  and  joy. 
Then  complete  darkness  comes.  The  light  usual  to  the  cabin  returns.  All 
signs  of  the  vision  have  gone.  The  boy  (the  only  boy  now  upon  the  scene) 
is  sitting  up  on  his  pallet,  bewildered  and  dazed  and  rubbing  his  eyes.  He 
looks  about  and  sees  his  mother  asleep  against  the  chest.  He  moves  silent- 
ly and  swiftly,  and,  taking  the  warm  skin-robe  that  covers  his  bed,  he  softly 
places  it  around  his  sleeping  mother. 


Scene  II. 
YOUTH 

Denton  Offutt's  store  at  New  Salem,  Illinois.  It  is  the  usual 
country  store  of  that  period.  There  are  the  central  stove,  the  boxes  of 
goods,  the  rude  shelves,  the  rickety  counter,  and  all  the  adjuncts  of  a  place 
where  the  talking,  discussing,  debating,  nation-regulating  frontiersmen 
gathered  in  casual,  social  life.  Offutt  himself,  on  this  occasion,  is  "keep- 
in'  store,"  and  a  group  of  the  usual  sort  is  assembled  around  his  stove.  The 
day  is  cold  and  the  stove  is  burning  brightly.  Calhoun,  the  surveyor; 
Menton  Graham,  the  schoolteacher;  Jack  Armstrong,  the  leader  of  the 
Clary's  Grove  Boys;  Dennis  Hanks;  and  many  others  are  present.  Fol- 
lowing the  usual  course,  the  meeting  falls  into  serious,  and  then  comic,  dis- 
cussions that  are  more  or  less  general.  Offutt,  the  owner  of  the  store,  is 
behind  the  counter  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  top  and  bending  over  with  his 
chin  in  his  hands.  The  rest  of  the  crowd  move  about  and  most  of  them 
find  seats  on  empty  boxes  and  on  stools.  Jack  Armstrong  speaks  to 
Offutt. 

Armstrong:     Denton,  where  be  Abe  now? 

Offutt:  Why,  Abe  he's  a  queer  critter.  He's  got  his  foot  in  his 
hand  an'  gone  four  miles  up  through  the  timber  an'  out  on  the  prairie  to 
give  back  a  sixpence  that  he  overcharged  a  woman  yesterday  for  a  cut  of 
calico.    He's  the  same  everlastin',  honest  Abe.    He'll  be  back  directly. 

Armstrong:  Abe's  all  right  through  an'  through  from  side  to  side 
and  from  top  to  bottom. 

Hanks:     Yes,  Abe's  all  right,  but — 

Armstrong :     But?    But  what? 

Hanks:  No  harm  meant,  Jack.  I'm  Abe's  kin  an' we  all  love  him  an' 
trust  him  no  end.  I  was  goin'  to  say  that  Abe  is  just  like  the  rest  of  us, 
an'  yet  he  ain't.  He  works  his  head  an'  makes  odd  ideas  out  of  'most 
everything  that  crosses  his  path.  You  can't  tell  where  he's  goin'  to  land 
with  some  wild  idea  of  his  when  he  gets  to  goin'. 

Armstrong:  What  you  mean,  Hanks,  'bout  Abe  havin'  wild  ideas? 
Look  out,  man,  no  scand'lous  tongue-waggin'  'bout  Abe  is  'lowed  in  the 
presence  of  this  here  Jack  Armstrong!  I  promised  my  God  and  myself, 
that  time  I  tried  to  bully  Abe  an'  he  an'  I  come  to  grips  and  fit  it  out  an' 
Abe  played  fair  from  start  to  finish  an'  licked  me  good,  that,  come  night 
or  day,  rain  or  shine,  hot  or  cold,  heaven  or  hell,  I  would  be  the  eternal  an' 
everlastin'  champeen  of  Abraham  Lincoln. 

Hanks:  Lord  bless  you,  Jack  Armstrong!  We  all  knows  how  an' 
why  Abe  licked  you  an'  we  love  Abe  an',  we  might  say,  we  kinder  likes  you 
for  lovin'  Abe  as  you  do.    I  be  the  last  man  on  the  top  side  of  this  earth  to 


scandalize  Abe.  He  is  my  kin  by  the  mother  that  brought  him  out  of  Ken- 
tuck'.  What  I  mean  is  that  Abe  has  a  strange  mind  that  hankers  an' 
hankers  after  somethin'  in  everything  that  you  an'  the  rest  of  us  don't  see 
or  understand.  When  he  gets  a  little  peep  at  a  bit  of  learnin',  he  goes 
after  more  an'  mulls  an'  mulls  an'  digs  an'  digs  an'  never,  never,  lets  up 
on  that  thing  till  he  rolls  it  over  an'  over  an'  gathers  it  into  himself  an' 
makes  it  a  part  of  his  bone  an'  body  an'  brain.  Last  winter,  when  Menton 
Graham,  here,  lent  him  a  book  called — called — Esau's  Fables — 

Graham:     You  mean  ^Esop's  Fables. 

Hanks:  Yes,  ^sop's  Fables — when  he  lent  him  iEsop's  Fables, 
all  about  foxes  an'  lions  an'  jackasses,  Abe  kept  that  book  by  him  nigh 
onto  all  the  time,  an'  memorized  it  an'  spoke  pieces  from  it  an'  acted  the 
parts  of  the  animals  in  it.  First  he  was  a  fox  an'  then  he  was  a  lion  an' 
then  he  was — 

Armstrong:  Look  out,  Hanks!  don't  carry  them  comparisons  no 
further. 

Hanks:  Go  on!  go  on!  Armstrong,  I  mean  no  harm.  I  was  only 
goin'  to  tell  about  how  he  kept  the  M sop's  Fables  by  him  night  an'  day  an' 
argued  an'  proved  his  points  by  what  the  wise  animals  an'  the  silly 
animals  said  an'  did.  Whatever  was  goin'  on,  that  Abe  had  anything  to 
do  with,  he  took  hold  of  it  with  some  trick  of  the  fox  or  speech  of  the  lion 
or  fool  caper  of  the  jackass.  For  nigh  onto  a  month  he  was  fable-crazy. 
I  thought  we'd  never  hear  the  last  of  it. 

Calhoun:  Hanks  is  about  right.  Once,  when  Abe  was  helpin'  me 
in  a  survey  through  the  timber,  we  come  upon  a  big  oak  with  a  hollow  in  it. 
Abe,  at  that  time,  was  carryin'  around  with  him  some  sort  of  a  history 
book  of  the  United  States  an'  readin'  it  between  times.  He  walked  up  to 
the  oak  tree  an'  said :  "Mr.  Calhoun,  this  big  tree  is  like  the  Charter  Oak 
that  I  am  readin'  about  here  in  this  history.  That  oak  was  a  thousand 
years  old  when  the  New  Englanders  hid  their  charter  of  freedom  in  it 
away  from  the  eyes  an'  hands  of  the  King's  agent,  an'  always  an'  forever, 
Mr.  Calhoun,  we  must  secure  human  rights  by  placin'  them  safely  away 
from  unrighteous  power  in  oaken  principles  of  truth  an'  justice  that  are 
far  more  than  a  thousand  years  old."  Yes,  those  were  fine  words  from 
Abe,  an'  they  showed  that  his 'book  worked  on  his  brain  until  everything 
he  touched  had  a  meanin'  or  a  leanin'  toward  wisdom.  Well,  we  made  this 
big  oak  a  corner.  I  took  the  compass  an'  glass  an'  Abe  toted  the  chain. 
I  sang  out — just  to  please  an'  rally  Abe — :  "We'll  make  the  Charter  Oak 
the  corner  an'  run  the  line  of  freedom  from  there  to  the  Gulf  of  Mexico !" 
Abe  looked  that  strange  at  me  an'  said :  "I  thought  you  were  a  surveyor — 
I  didn't  know  you  were  a  prophet." 

Armstrong:  An'  that  ain't  all.  Abe's  got  lots  of  fun  in  him — you 
bet  he  has !  He  laughs  at  all  these  things  arter  they  are  over  until  his  long 
bones  shake  an'  rattle.    An'  we  all  be  bound  to  laugh  with  Abe.    In  him  a 


wise  brain  sets  easy  on  a  warm  heart.  An'  yet,  boys,  there  come  times 
when  a  shadow  settles  down  upon  him,  that  Parson  Elkin  says  he  got  in 
his  blood  from  his  own  mother. 

Calhoun:  Here's  somethin'  else  that  I  caught  Abe  doin'.  Last 
winter  a  big  snow  lay  on  the  ground.  At  that  particular  time  he  was  livin' 
his  life  glued  to  old  Weems'  Life  of  George  Washington.  He  read  it  up 
one  side  an'  down  another  an'  talked  about  George  Washington  in  season 
an'  out  of  season.  The  snow  on  the  ground  set  him  to  talkin',  world  with- 
out end,  about  Valley  Forge  an'  the  thin  line  of  frozen  Continental  soldiers 
that  stood  by  an'  stuck  to  the  cause  amid  rags  an'  tatters  an'  starvation. 
Abe  had  Washington  on  the  brain  in  general  an'  Valley  Forge  in  particu- 
lar. He  carried  Weems'  book  under  his  arm,  an',  if  he  stopped  for  a  min- 
ute, he  lost  himself  in  it.  He  went  off  in  the  snow  up  through  the  big 
woods  an'  thickets  by  MacKee's  creek.  I  followed  him  just  for  curiosity. 
He  was  deep  in  the  bush  when  he  buttoned  his  coat  about  him  an'  sat  down 
on  a  log  an'  opened  his  Weems.  There  he  sat  an'  read.  I  watched  him  for 
a  long  time.  After  a  while,  guess  what  happened  ?  He  kept  the  book  open 
an'  read  it  as  he  walked  down  behind  some  bushes  near  to  the  bank  of  the 
creek.  I  came  up  soft  an'  easy  like,  an'  Abe  was  standin'  there  with  the 
book  open  at  the  big  picture  of  Washington  down  on  his  knees  in  the  snow 
by  the  creek  at  Valley  Forge.  Then — quick  as  a  flash! — Abe  fell  on  his 
knees  in  the  snow  in  front  of  a  fallen  saplin'  an'  stayed  that  way  just  for 
one  minute.  Then  he  was  up  an'  gone  an'  never  knew  that  I  was  near.  I 
said  to  myself  that  Abe  was  not  only  lookin'  at  an'  readin'  his  pictures  an' 
pages,  but  he  was  actin'  them  in  the  snow. 

Graham:  Yes,  I  once  told  Abe  that  I  had  a  lot  of  books  that  I  was 
trying  to  get  some  of  the  settlers  to  bring  out  to  me,  and  one  of  them  was 
a  translation  of  a  story  of  an  old  Greek  who  marched  with  his  ten  thou- 
sand from  the  middle  of  Asia  through  millions  of  Persians  until  the  nar- 
row sea  surrounding  their  own  home  lay  shining  before  his  men.  Abe 
said :  "I  don't  know  anything  about  those  old  Greek  fellows,  but  that  they 
were  barbarians  and  invaders  fighting  other  barbarians  for  the  sake  of 
invading  and  conquering  and  fighting.  None  of  them  did  what  old  George 
Rogers  Clark  did,  when  he  mustered  four  hundred  Kentuckians  at  the 
Falls  of  the  Ohio  in  our  great  Revolution,  and,  marching  vast  distances 
through  floods  and  ice,  struck  Hamilton  at  Kaskaskia  and  Vincennes,  and, 
routing  his  great  army  of  British  and  Indians,  made  a  Yorktown  possible 
and  American  liberty  safe."  Abe  always  looks  down  under  a  fight  to  see 
what  it's  about  and  how  it  results  for  something  big  and  good.  It's  the 
thing  that  the  fight's  about  that  moves  Abe. 

Hanks:  I've  heard  Abe  go  on  powerful  'bout  that  Vincennes  an' 
Kaskaskia  business.  There  were  two  Lincolns  from  Virginia  an'  one 
Hanks  from  Carolina  in  that  thing.  Clark  an'  his  four  hundred  passed 
not  so  mighty  far  from  this  place  when  they  went  to  Kaskaskia. 


Armstrong:  If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  Clary's  Grove  Boys  lettin' 
Abe  into  their  gang,  I  guess  they'd  all  now  be  horse  thieves  an'  vagabonds. 
They  are  a  rough  set  yet,  an'  Abe  is  the  only  connection  between  them  an' 
the  plan  of  salvation.  But,  into  all  their  pranks,  Abe  manages  to  send 
somethin'  that  holds  'em  down  an'  makes  'em  halfway  decent.  Did  you 
fellers  ever  try  to  git  the  last  word  on  Abe  an'  fix  the  joke  on  him?  Well, 
you  just  can't  do  it.  The  boys  at  Clary's  Grove  have  tried  that,  an'  what 
they  can't  do  you  can't  do.  Abe's  been  crazy  of  late  about  Patrick  Henry 
an'  his  speech  on  "give  me  liberty  or  give  me  death,"  an'  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  Menton  Graham  here  lent  him  a  little  black  book  about  Patrick 
Henry,  an'  that  set  him  to  goin'.  The  other  day  Abe  an'  I  was  goin'  along 
by  a  cabin,  an'  some  guinea  fowls  was  around  the  door,  an'  they  began  to 
squall:  "Patrick!  Patrick!  Patrick!"  an'  Abe  stopped  an'  took  the  little 
black  book  out  of  his  shirt  an'  said :  "Listen  there,  Jack,  the  fowls  of  the 
air  is  joinin'  me  in  this  craze  for  the  glorious  man  who  said  'give  me  liberty 
or  give  me  death' — Patrick!  Patrick!  Patrick  Henry."  Yes,  Abe's  got 
Patrick  Henry  on  the  brain,  an'  he'll  stay  there  till  some  other  big  man 
who  helped  to  make  this  great  country  takes  his  place  in  Abe's  noggin  an' 
runs  along  to  the  end  of  his  spell.  Why,  if  Abe  was  to  pop  into  this  gath- 
erin'  right  now,  he'd  twist  an'  turn  us  all  'round  to  Patrick  Henry — sho 
as  preachin' ! 

Offutt:  Abe'll  be  back  here  shortly.  Why  don't  you  boys  fix  up  an' 
start  a  pig-tight,  horse-high  an'  bull-strong  argument  or  debate,  an'  have 
it  in  full  swing  when  he  comes,  on  some  fool  thing  away  off  from  Patrick 
Henry  or  anything  about  Patrick  Henry,  an'  stick  to  this  fool  thing  an' 
hammer  it  hard  an'  never  let  up  while  Abe  sits  around  helpless  an'  watches 
an'  waits  an'  listens  an'  wets  his  lips  for  some  sort  of  openin'  to  run  in  his 
Patrick  Henry?  There's  a  good  joke  on  Abe  ready  an'  waitin'  for  all  you 
boys  right  now.  I  believe  to  my  soul,  if  you  start  right  in  an'  keep  it  up, 
you'll  nail  Abe  down  in  disappointment  an'  silence  or  you'll  make  him 
choke  himself  by  talkin'  about  this  fool  thing  an'  findin'  it  impossible  to 
run  his  Patrick  Henry  over  us.    Can  we  do  it? 

Calhoun:  I  believe  we  can.  I  move  that  this  meetin'  resolve  itself 
into  a  debatin'  society;  that  schoolmaster  Menton  Graham  take  the  chair; 
that  a  lively  debate  start  forthwith  upon  some  fool  topic  selected  by  a 
committee  appointed  by  the  chair ;  that  we  carry  out  the  scheme  that  Den- 
ton Offutt  names ;  an'  get  at  it  quick  an'  have  the  whole  thing  in  full  swing 
when  Abe  comes  in. 

Armstrong:  I  seconds  the  motion.  But,  men,  let  me  tell  you,  we'll 
have  a  hard  time  selectin'  a  subject  an'  carryin'  on  a  debate  so  as  to  shut 
Abe  off  from  gettin'  the  upper  hand  somehow  or  other  an'  runnin'  in  the 
thing  that's  settin'  hardest  on  his  brain  right  now.  If  we  goes  at  it  hard 
an'  keeps  it  up,  we  may  throw  Abe  down  just  this  once — but  I  doubts  it! 
In  order  to  make  the  scheme  pig-tight,  horse-high  an'  bull-strong,  I  amends 

10 


the  motion  to  the  effect,  that  the  chair  notifies  Abe  when  he  comes  in  that 
the  subject  of  debate  is  just  so-an'-so  an'  nobody  is  'lowed  to  change  it  or 
wander  away  from  it  or  do  anything  but  stick  to  it.  If  we  do  this,  we  may 
succeed — but  I  doubts  it ! 

Hanks:  I  puts  the  motion  an'  the  amendment  an'  calls  for  the 
vote.    All  in  favor  say  yes. 

Chorus :     Yes !  yes !  yes !  yes ! 

Hanks:  Opposed,  no  (silence).  The  motion  is  carried  an'  school- 
teacher Menton  Graham  will  take  the  chair  an'  carry  out  instructions. 

Menton  Graham,  amused  and  pleased  with  the  plan  and  its  oppor- 
tunities for  backwoods  fun  and  a  situation  to  test  young  Abraham  Lin- 
coln's resourcefulness,  takes  the  chair  and  assumes  all  of  its  power,  au- 
thority and  dignity. 

Graham:  In  obedience  to  the  resolutions,  I  call  this  debating  so- 
ciety to  order  and  appoint  a  committee  of  three,  consisting  of  Mr.  Ike 
Dixon,  Mr.  Andy  Scott  and  Mr.  Hank  Cutler,  to  retire  at  once  and  select, 
without  a  moment's  delay — for  Abe  will  be  coming  soon — the  subject  of 
discussion.    Gentlemen,  retire. 

The  three  committeemen  go  out  to  confer  and  select  the  topic. 

Offutt:  Mr.  Chairman,  while  the  committee  is  out,  I  move  that 
you  make  Ebenezer  Hicks  a  committee  of  one  to  go  outside  an'  act  as  a 
sort  of  picket  an'  keep  a  sort  of  look-out  for  Abe  an'  give  us  warnin'  if  he 
comes  nigh. 

Graham:  Without  objections,  Ebenezer  Hicks  is  appointed,  and 
he  will  take  his  post  and  assume  his  duties. 

Hicks  goes  out  and  closes  the  door. 

Graham:  The  proprietor  of  this  establishment,  if  there  is  no  ob- 
jection, will  kindly  get  some  wood  and  mend  the  fire  in  the  stove,  and, 
while  he  is  at  this,  he  will  be  so  kind  as  to  request  the  committee  to  report 
upon  the  topic  at  once. 

Offutt  (on  the  outside):  Hurry  up,  gentlemen  of  the  committee, 
an'  make  your  report  on  the  question  for  discussion. 

Offutt  returns  with  an  armful  of  wood,  followed  by  the  committee. 

Dixon  (of  the  committee) :  Mr.  Chairman,  bein'  as  how  Jack  Arm- 
strong's horse  was  beset  with  horse-colic  last  night,  an'  horse-colic,  is  sure- 
ly a  fool  thing  for  a  debatin'  society  to  arguify  about,  an'  bein'  as  how 
Jack's  horse  havin'  horse-colic  put  this  fool  notion  in  your  honorable  com- 
mittee's head,  an'  furthermore,  bein'  as  how  horse-colic  ain't  got  no  pos- 
sible connection  with  Patrick  Henry  or  anything  concernin'  him,  we,  the 
committee,  do  hereby  an'  now  report  horse-colic  as  the  subject  of  this  de- 
bate. 

Graham:  The  report  of  the  committee  is  received  and  filed,  and 
the  discussion  upon  horse-colic,  and  horse-colic  alone,  will  now  begin. 
There  may  be  those  who  favor  the  institution  of  horse-colic  and  those  who 

11 


oppose  it.  Let  us  hear  the  pros  and  cons.  But,  gentlemen,  it  is  agreed  and 
understood  that,  in  all  that  is  said  and  done,  a  complete  barrier  is  to  be 
maintained,  when  Abe  Lincoln  comes  in,  against  his  everlasing  Patrick 
Henry.  Let  us  hear  first  from  Zack  Caverly,  known  to  us  all  as  Socrates. 
Mr.  Caverly,  gentlemen! 

Caverly:  Mr.  Chairman,  I  views  horse-colic  as  one  of  the  un- 
preliminary  fogitations  of  our  intellectual  jurisdictions,  an'  it  is  crowned 
with  the  gild  of  nature,  stamped  with  indelible  ink,  an'  is  not  to  be  shaken 
by  the  complixions  of  elementary.  It  sho  be  a  thing  of  which  any  horse 
may  well  be  proud.  It  comes  an'  it  goes  an'  sometimes  it  carries  the  horse 
with  it.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that,  when  it  thus  goes  an'  carries  a  good  an' 
faithful  horse  with  it,  blue-grass  meadows  of  a  celestial  Kentuck'  are  the 
bourne  from  which  no  colicky  horse  ever  returns  to  tell  us  the  way.  My 
motto  is  horse-colic  forever,  e  pluribus  unum,  and  the  devil  take  the  hind- 
most !  I  love  Abe,  as  we  all  do,  but,  Mr.  Chairman,  we  sho  have  him  cir- 
cumlocuted  on  his  Patrick  Henry  by  this  topic  of  horse-colic. 

Armstrong:  Mr.  Chairman,  my  motto  is  Abe  Lincoln  now  an'  for- 
ever, world  without  end — amen!  But  I'm  in  on  the  joke,  an'  if  we  bag 
Abe,  I'll  be  as  happy  as  the  next  one.  The  Good  Book  says,  or  one  of  Abe's 
fables  from  that  book  about  the  foxes  an'  the  lions  an'  the  jackasses  says : 
"Let  him  boast  who  taketh  off  his  armor  and  not  him  who  buckeleth  it  on." 
Don't  let's  be  too  certain  about  catchin'  Abe.  But  I  must  discuss  horse- 
colic.  I  begin  by  sayin'  I'm  ag'in'  it  as  a  national,  state,  county,  town  or 
domestic  institution.    It's  unconstitutional — 

Hicks  (the  sentinel,  entering  in  a  hurry) :  Abe's  comin',  boys,  but 
he's  slowin'  up  just  a  bit  as  he  passes  Rutledge's  mill,  an'  if  Anne,  with  her 
blue  eyes  an'  yaller  hair,  don't  happen  to  be  aroun'  the  mill,  he'll  be  here 
afore  you  can  say  horse-colic  three  times  more.  Look  out !  (peering  out  of 
the  door)  the  girl  wasn't  there,  so  Abe  is  right  upon  us. 

Abe  (entering  and  carrying  a  barrel  of  flour):  Well!  well!  good 
people,  I  greet  you  all.    I'm  glad  to  see  you. 

Graham:  Mr.  Lincoln,  you  are  happening  in  upon  a  debating  so- 
ciety in  full  discussion  of  a  topic  that  is  vital  to  all  farmers  and  owners  of 
horse-flesh.  We  are  discussing  horse-colic — yes  sir, — horse-colic!  We 
have  formally  resolved  to  stick  to  that  topic  and  stray  away  into  no  other. 
If  you  join  in  the  debate — and  appreciating  your  eloquence  and  powers,  we 
wish  you  to  do  so — it  is  upon  the  condition  that  your  observations — all  of 
them — shall  be  those  strictly  concerning  the  subject. 

Abe:  Gentlemen  of  the  Sangamon,  neighbors  and  friends,  I  beg 
of  you  that  you  allow  me  to  be  seated  among  you  as  a  modest  listener  and 
observer,  while  your  wit  and  wisdom  join  in  unfolding  the  hidden  mys- 
teries of  ancient  and  honorable  horse-colic. 

Chorus:    No !  no !  Abe,  go  on !  go  on ! 

Abe:     Then,  friends,  Romans,  countrymen,  you  will  have  it  so. 


12 


This  subject  divides  itself  into  two  headings.  The  first  is  horse  and  the 
second  is  colic.  The  horse  is  a  noble  animal.  Old  Job  said :  "Hast  thou 
given  the  horse  strength?  Hast  thou  clothed  his  neck  with  thunder?  Canst 
thou  make  him  afraid  as  a  grasshopper?  The  glory  of  his  nostrils  is  ter- 
rible. He  paweth  in  the  valley,  and  rejoiceth  in  his  strength :  he  goeth  on 
to  meet  the  armed  men.  He  mocketh  at  fear,  and  is  not  affrighted ;  neither 
turneth  he  back  from  the  sword.  The  quiver  rattleth  against  him,  the 
glittering  spear  and  the  shield.  He  swalloweth  the  ground  with  fierce- 
ness and  rage:  neither  believeth  he  that  it  is  the  sound  of  the  trumpet. 
He  saith  among  the  trumpets,  Ha,  ha;  and  he  smelleth  the  battle  from 
afar  off,  the  thunder  of  the  captains  and  the  shouting." 

Chorus  (amid  great  applause) :  Go  on,  Abe !  go  on !  that's  the  way 
to  line  it  out. 

Abe:  There  is  no  wonder  that  a  great  king  cried:  "A  horse! 
a  horse!  my  kingdom  for  a  horse!" 

Chorus  (ivith  applause) :     Go  on !  go  on !  Abe ! 

Abe:  Have  I  put  the  horse  before  the  cart  in  thus  discoursing  up- 
on the  horse  before  discussing  the  painful  subject  of  colic?  What,  then, 
is  colic?    What  is  horse-colic? 

Chorus:     What  is  it,  Abe? 

Abe:  Shall  I  define  horse-colic  for  you,  Mr.  Chairman?  Do  you 
give  me  permission? 

Graham:     Proceed,  Mr.  Lincoln. 

Abe:  Well,  sir,  if  I  be  not  mistaken,  horse-colic  is  a  gust  of  wind 
on  the  inside  of  a  horse  crying :  "Give  me  liberty  or  give  me  death." 

Armstrong  (amid  an  uproar  of  laughter  and  applause):  There 
you  be,  boys,  I  told  you  so.  I  told  you  Abe  would  win.  He  played  fair  and 
he  won  fair.  He  played  fair  an'  licked  me  at  Clary's  Grove  an'  he  played 
fair  an'  licked  us  all  in  the  Patrick  Henry  game  at  Offutt's  store. 

The  meeting  spontaneously  adjourns  amid  felicitations  to  Abe  and 
ivith  him  and  all  others  in  a  state  of  good-humored  merriment. 


13 


Scene  III. 
LOVE 

The  scene  is  Offutt's  store  at  nightfall.  Lincoln  is  upon  the 
counter  with  bales  and  boxes  of  goods  forming  a  back-rest  for  him.  He 
is  alone  in  the  store.  A  big,  old-fashioned  candle  mounted  on  a  box  near 
his  head  gives  him  light.  He  is  reading  the  book  on  Patrick  Henry  that 
Menton  Graham  lent  him.  Close  at  hand  are  copies  of  Blackstone's  Com- 
mentaries and  Euclid's  Elements  of  Geometry.  LINCOLN  is  absorbed  in 
his  books.  The  door  opens  and  Anne  Rutledge  comes  in  with  a  basket  on 
her  arm.  She  is  young  and  very  beautiful.  Her  eyes  are  as  blue  as  the 
sky  and  her  waving  hair  as  golden-yellow  as  the  ripe  wheat  on  the  prairie. 
Lincoln  is  so  buried  in  his  book  that  he  does  not  hear  the  door  open  or  the 
footfalls  of  the  girl. 

Anne:     Good  evening,  Mr.  Lincoln,  and  I  hope  you  are  well. 

Lincoln  (literally  crashing  down  from  his  perch  on  the  counter): 
Great  horn  spoon !  Miss  Anne,  and  I  am  well  and  I'm  hoping  that  you  are 
the  same  and,  in  addition,  a  pluperfect  multiplication  of  perfection  in 
well-being.  I'm  glad  you've  come  to  Offutt's  store,  and  I'm  waiting  to 
serve  you  to  anything  and  all  things — (aside)  Abe  Lincoln  included — in  it. 

Anne:  Thank  you,  Mr.  Lincoln,  but  my  father  sent  me  from  the 
mill  about  the  flour  that  you  brought  up  here  on  your  shoulder  to  the  store 
last  Saturday  evening.  He  wants  you  or  Mr.  Offutt  to  give  him  credit  on 
the  books.    Will  you  make  a  note  of  it  and  see  that  the  credit  is  given? 

Lincoln:  Miss  Anne,  I'll  write  it  down — how  much,  four  dollars? 
— right  here  on  the  flyleaf  of  my  book  (making  the  note). 

Anne:  Mr.  Lincoln,  I  saw  you  at  the  meeting  house  last  Sunday 
listening  to  Parson  Peter  Cartwright's  sermon  about  the  Garden  of  Eden 
and  the  fall  of  Adam  and  Eve. 

Lincoln:  Yes,  Miss  Anne,  I  was  there,  and  I  had  it  out  with  Par- 
son Cartwright  next  day  down  here  at  the  store. 

Anne:  Ah,  Mr.  Lincoln,  did  you  argue  with  a  preacher  of  the 
Gospel? 

Lincoln:  Yes,  I  told  him  that,  according  to  my  way  of  thinking, 
some  of  old  King  James'  translators  must  have  got  it  wrong  in  that  story 
of  Adam  and  Eve.  I  told  him  that  the  story  in  Holy  Writ  began  all  right 
and  ran  along  the  same  way  to  a  certain  point,  and  then  it  didn't  seem  to 
give  the  facts,  as  I  like  to  think  they  were,  concerning  the  first  man  and 
woman  who  sent  their  red  blood  through  our  race.  You  know  the  story 
goes,  according  to  Parson  Cartwright,  that  the  Lord  God  planted  a  gar- 
den eastward  in  Eden,  and  there  he  put  the  man  that  he  had  formed.  God 
commanded  Adam  that  he  should  not  eat  of  the  tree  of  knowledge  of  good 

14 


and  evil.  Then,  after  this  command,  Eve  was  created.  The  serpent  tempt- 
ed the  woman  and  she  did  eat  of  the  forbidden  tree  and  did  tempt  Adam  to 
eat,  and  he  ate.  Then  God  was  angry  and  asked  Adam  if  he  had  eaten  of 
the  tree  and — shame  upon  Parson  Cartwright's  Adam! — he  said:  "The 
woman  whom  thou  gavest  to  be  with  me,  she  gave  me  of  the  tree,  and  I 
did  eat."  And  then  God  drove  both  Adam  and  Eve  out  of  the  garden  into 
a  world  of  sorrow  and  toil  and  desolation  forever. 

Anne:  But,  Mr.  Lincoln,  that  is  the  way  that  Parson  Cartwright's 
Scriptures  read.     How  else  could  you  have  it? 

Lincoln:  Ah,  Miss  Anne,  I  admit  that  I  tremble  just  a  little  when 
I  speak  to  you,  even  in  sacred  confidence,  and  dare  to  depart  from  Parson 
Cartwright's  version.  There  was  a  sky  bending  over  Eden — a  blue  sky! 
— and  perhaps  there  were  prairies  on  which  grew  golden-yellow  wheat — 
waving  golden-yellow  wheat !  Perhaps  Eve's  eyes  were  as  blue  as  the  sky 
and  her  hair  was  like  the  golden  wheat  on  those  prairies.  When  God  asked 
Adam,  "Hast  thou  eaten  of  the  tree?"  I  like  to  think  that  Adam  held  up 
his  head  and  felt  the  blood  run  in  his  veins  and  said,  "Yes,  I  did  eat,"  and 
breathed  not  a  word  about  Eve  tempting  him.  And  then  I  like  to  think, 
when  God  punished  Adam  alone  by  driving  him  from  the  garden  into  the 
desert  to  earn  his  bread  in  the  sweat  of  his  face,  that  Adam  went  in  sil- 
ence. And  then,  I  imagine  that  God  gave  all  the  garden  to  Eve  and  called 
down  a  Seraphim  to  be  her  new  husband;  that  Eve  hid  herself  from  the 
face  of  the  Seraphim ;  and,  when  night  was  upon  Eden,  she  did  break  the 
bonds  of  the  garden  and  go  forth  seeking  Adam.  And  then,  Miss  Anne,  I 
love  to  think  that,  after  days  of  journeying  toward  the  west ! — always  with 
me  toward  the  west — she  found  him  and  said :  "Where  thou  art,  there  is 
my  garden !"  And  lastly,  Miss  Anne,  I  like  to  whisper  to  you  that  I  like  to 
think  that  God  found  this  man  and  woman  in  the  desert,  and  heard  their 
words,  and  saw  them  fare  forth  toward  dry  and  stony  lands,  and  that  the 
Lord  God  was  lonely  and  sore  of  heart  when  he  again  walked  in  Eden  in 
the  cool  of  the  day. 

Anne:  I  am  almost  frightened  at  your  words,  even  though  the 
story  that  you  make  is  a  beautiful — very  beautiful  one ! 

Lincoln:  Well,  Miss  Anne,  the  Good  Book  is  the  greatest  book  in 
the  world,  and  I  have  read  it  more  than  all  the  other  books  that  I  have 
been  able  to  borrow,  beg,  buy  or  steal. 

Anne:  Mr.  Lincoln,  you  are  a  man  of  books  and  books  about  great 
men  who  made  this  country.  My  father  has  a  book  with  his  own  kins- 
man's name  printed  in  it,  where  it  is  shown  that  this  kinsman  took  part 
with  Mr.  Thomas  Jefferson  in  signing  the  Declaration  of  Independence  at 
Philadelphia.  Father  talks  a  great  deal  about  Governor  Edward  Rutledge 
of  Carolina,  who  was  a  signer  of  the  great  Declaration  and  who  was  our 
ancestor.  Dear  old  Father's  mind  wanders  back  to  Carolina,  where  he 
spent  his  youth  among  his  kin  who  owned  thousands  of  acres  and  hun- 

15 


dreds  of  slaves  and  who  wore  powdered  wigs  and  rode  in  a  coach  drawn 
by  four  horses  wearing  silver-mounted  harness.  Ah,  but  I  love  the  coun- 
try out  here  where  the  blue  sky  bends  down  above  the  golden  wheat  on  the 
prairies. 

Lincoln:     Yes,  Miss  Anne,  blue!  blue!  blue  and  gold!  gold!  gold! 

Anne:     I  love  the  country  out  here. 

Lincoln:     And  do  you  love  the  people  out  here  too,  Miss  Anne? 

Anne:     Yes!  yes!  Mr.  Lincoln,  with  all  my  frontier-heart. 

Lincoln:  And  Anne — I  mean  Miss  Anne — do  you  love  all  the  peo- 
ple out  here? 

Anne:     Yes,  I  am  sure  that  I  do. 

Lincoln:     I  am  so  glad  that  Abe  Lincoln  is  out  here. 

Anne:  But  Abe — I  mean  Mr.  Lincoln — they  say  that  you  are  go- 
ing away  on  a  long  trip  to  New  Orleans  in  Denton  Offutt's  flatboat. 

Lincoln:  Yes,  on  a  long,  long  trip  down  the  Sangamon  to  the  Illi- 
nois, then  to  the  Mississippi,  and  then  to  New  Orleans.  I  am  leaving  very 
soon,  Anne,  and  so  I  want  you  to  let  me  walk  home  with  you  this  evening, 
because  I  want  to  say  a  lot  of  very  deep  and  earnest  things  to  you  before  I 
go.  I  can't  say  them  here  among  the  groceries  and  dry  goods  and  kegs  of 
nails  and — and — chewing  tobacco. 

Anne:  But  Mr.  Lin — I  mean  Abe — I  know  the  way  home  very 
well.    The  moon  is  shining  and  I  have  traveled  the  path  a  thousand  times. 

Lincoln:  That  may  be  true,  Anne.  I  am  not  minded  that  you  will 
send  me  away  to  begin  my  long  journey  on  the  great  river  without  hearing 
me  speak  of  something  that's  away  down  in  my  heart  and  that  makes  me 
love  to  ring  in  the  blue  sky  and  "the  waving,  golden  wheat,  because  I  am 
thinking,  Anne,  of  your  eyes  and  your  hair.  If  you  will,  Anne,  I  want  you 
to  say  something  to  me  that  will  gladden  my  heart  so  that  my  eyes  may 
be  steady  and  my  hand  strong  to  hold  the  old  boat  true  to  her  course  and 
keep  her  clear  of  the  suction  whirls  where  the  Ohio  comes  into  the  Missis- 
sippi. I  want  to  tell  you  something,  Anne,  that  all  the  words  of  our  lan- 
guage cannot  express,  and,  in  answer,  I  want  to  beg  from  you  just  three 
words  that  I  can  carry  with  me  on  the  voyage  to  bless  me  through  the  long 
days  and  bring  dreams  of  paradise  to  my  heart  as  I  lie  at  night  on  the 
banks  under  the  Milky  Way. 

Anne:  Father  says  that  his  cavalier  kin  back  in  Carolina  used  to 
make  wonderfully  pretty  speeches,  but  I  am  thinking,  Abe — shall  I  not 
call  you  Abe  always  now? — that  some  sort  of  a  touch  of  the  cavalier  is 
down  deep  in  your  backwoods  soul. 

Lincoln:     Never  mind  about  the  cavalier — whatever  that  may  be. 
I  may  take  the  long  road — the  very  longest! — home  with  you? 
Anne:     Yes,  Abe. 

The  two  go  and  Lincoln  is  heard  on  the  outside  turning  the  key  in 
the  door. 


16 


Scene  IV. 
THE  VOYAGE 


Lincoln  upon  his  voyage  down  the  Mississippi  to  New  Orleans,  in 
the  trading  boat  of  Denton  Offutt,  stops  for  supplies  and  repairs  at  the 
regal  plantation  of  Madame  Duchesne  in  Louisiana.  There  his  loaded 
flatboat  is  docked  in  a  small  bayou.  Beyond  the  vast  acres  of  fertile  river 
lands,  on  the  crest  of  a  long  slope  covered  with  stately  trees  and  beautified 
with  flowering  gardens,  is  seen  the  typical  plantation  mansion  of  the  opu- 
lent cotton-sugar  South.  Roivs  of  slave-quarters  are  seen  clustering 
around  the  vast  grounds  and  occurring  here  and  there  among  the  trees 
and  gardens.  The  sun  is  setting  and  darkness  will  soon  come.  From  the 
fields  swells  a  chorus  of  slave-voices. 


Slave-Chorus: 


Ah'm 

gwine  t' 

walk 

Ah'm 

gwine  t' 

eat 

Ah'm 

gwine  f 

drink 

Ah'm 

gwine  t' 

tell 

talk  wid    de 

never  git 

never  git 

how  you 


thins 
do 


gels, 

ty, 
me, 


Ah'm 

gwiue  t' 

walk 

an'      talk 

wid 

de 

Ah'm 

gwine  t' 

eat 

an'       nev 

-   er 

e.t 

Ah'm 

gwine  t' 

drink 

an        nev 

-   er 

KU 

Ah'm 

gwine  t' 

tell 

Gawd 

how 

you 

an     -  gels,  Some  o'  dese  days, 

hon  -  gry.  Some  o'  dese  days, 

thirs  -    ty,  Some  o'  dese  days, 

do        me,  Some  o'  dese  days. 


Ah'm 

gwine  t' 

walk 

an' 

talk 

wid    de 

an  -  gels, 

Ah'm 

gwine  t 

Ah'm 

gwine  t' 

eat 

an'  nev 

er 

git 

hon-  gry, 

Ah'm 

gwine  t' 

Ah'm 

gwine  t' 

drink 

an'  nev 

er 

git 

thirs  -  ty, 

Ah'm 

gwine  t' 

Ah'm 

gwine  t' 

tell 

Gawd 

how 

you 

do       me. 

Ah'm 

gwine   t' 

walk  an'     talk 

wid  de 

an    -  gels. 

Some 

eat     an'      nev 

-     er     git 

hon  -  gry, 

Some 

drink  an'      nev 

•     er     git 

thirs-  ty. 

Some 

tell    Gawd 

how  you 

do        me, 

Some 

days, 
days, 
days, 
days. 


IT 


Lincoln  and  his  two  companions  (Hanks  and  Johnston)  are  fas- 
tening the  cable  of  the  boat  to  a  tree  when  this  chorus  begins.  Lincoln  is 
very  attentive  to  it  and  stands  absorbed  until  it  ends.  As  the  singing  dies 
away,  a  man  of  the  overseer-type,  wearing  a  broad  hat  and  white  suit  with 
top  boots,  emerges  from  the  thick  growth  on  the  bayou  near  the  boat. 

Overseer:  Gentlemen!  gentlemen!  where  are  you  bound,  and  can 
the  Duchesne  plantation  help  you  in  any  way?  Have  you  had  trouble? 
One  of  you  looks  as  if  he  had  a  hurt  on  his  head. 

Lincoln:  Yes,  good  neighbor — for,  though  we  are  a  long  way  from 
our  Illinois  home,  the  great  river  makes  us  neighbors — we  were  not  going 
from  Jerusalem  to  Jericho,  but  from  New  Salem  to  New  Orleans.  Last 
night,  near  the  big  bend  above  here,  we  fell  among  river  thieves  who  tried 
to  rob  our  boat.  Comrade  Hanks  was  slightly  wounded  in  the  forehead 
and  I  bear  this  scratch  on  the  arm.  We  lost  our  stock  of  coffee  and  some 
of  our  other  supplies. 

Overseer:  This  is  the  plantation  of  Madame  Duchesne,  a  widowed 
lady,  where  many  travelers  from  the  north  country  voyaging  on  the  river 
have  stopped. 

Lincoln:     That  is  very  interesting. 

Overseer:  There  are  two  travelers  now  at  the  great  house,  one 
from  Virginia  and  the  other  from  Carolina,  seeking  in  the  far  South  for 
their  blacks  carried  away  by  misadventure  from  their  estates.  These 
blacks  are  women  that,  it  seems,  were  very  dear  to  the  families  of  these 
two  gentlemen.  Somehow,  the  Virginians  and  Carolinians  cling  to  and 
love  the  blacks  that  grow  up  with  them,  and  make  it  a  rule  to  seek  out  and 
buy  back  those  whom  misfortune  carries  to  the  distant  South.  Madame 
Duchesne  likes  to  help  them  and  so  do  I,  even  if  I  am  simply  an  overseer 
born  and  raised  in  Vermont. 

Lincoln:     In  Vermont? 

Overseer:  Yes,  right  in  the  eastern  shadow  of  the  Green  Moun- 
tains. 

Lincoln:  Abraham  Lincoln  is  my  name  and  my  companions  are 
Mr.  Hanks  and  Mr.  Johnston.  Our  home  port  is  New  Salem  on  the  Sanga- 
mon in  Illinois.    May  I  not  have  your  name,  sir? 

Overseer:  Emanuel  Godspeed  is  my  name.  After  two  years  at 
Dartmouth  College,  I  ran  away  and  came  here  to  learn  the  game  of  boss- 
ing nine  under-overseers  and  ruling  two  thousand  blacks. 

Lincoln:  I  used  to  read  about  men  with  names  like  yours  in  a 
book  called  The  Pilgrim's  Progress.  That  book  is  a  sort  of  Mayflower  on 
the  ocean  of  memory  landing  cargoes  of  names  of  that  sort  on  Plymouth 
Rock.    Mr.  Godspeed,  are  you  fond  of  codfish,  baked  beans  and  cold  bread? 

Godspeed:  Yes,  quite  so!  quite  so!  but  the  gastronomic  propagan- 
da of  this  land  is  very  insidious,  and  I  admit  inroads  upon  my  tastes  by 
batterbread,  fried  chicken  and  hot  biscuits. 

18 


Lincoln:     Mr.  Godspeed,  are  you  a  philosopher? 

Godspeed:     Well,  now,  perhaps,  and  perhaps  not. 

Lincoln:  Can  a  nation  be  rent  asunder  upon  the  issue  of  hot  bis- 
cuits against  cold  bread? 

Godspeed:     With  such  an  issue  joined,  I  should  be  neutral. 

Lincoln:  This  plantation,  with  its  great  house  and  its  distin- 
guished owner,  Madame  Duchesne,  is  deeply  interesting  to  people  of  the 
north  country.  Would  you  mind  telling  us  more  of  this  place  and  its 
owner? 

Godspeed:  Madame  Duchesne  was  left  a  widow  by  her  noble  hus- 
band, Roland  Duchesne,  who,  having  served  with  distinction  as  a  soldier 
under  Andrew  Jackson  in  the  battle  of  New  Orleans,  gave  largely  of  his 
great  wealth,  and  finally  gave  his  life,  in  following  Father  Xavier  and  his 
heroic  brotherhood  in  fighting  a  scourge  of  fever  that  swept  the  Delta  and 
the  coasts  of  the  Gulf.  Roland  Duchesne's  grandfather  laid  the  founda- 
tions of  this  plantation.  Madame  Duchesne  herself  was  born  in  Carolina. 
Her  father's  immediate  ancestor,  Jean  Devreaux,  was  a  Girondist  in 
the  great  Revolution,  and  was  driven  from  France  by  Marat's  terrorists 
in  1793,  and  came  to  eastern  Carolina.  Her  mother's  people  are  the  Gran- 
villes  of  that  state,  and  their  plantation  is  on  the  Cape  Fear  River.  Thus 
there  are  blended  in  Madame  Duchesne  the  best  elements  of  America  and 
France.  Her  house  is  open  always,  and  hospitality  is  to  her  a  religion. 
Mr.  Lincoln,  let  your  companions  make  their  camp  here  near  your  boat  and 
you  yourself  go  with  me  to  the  great  house  for  supplies  that  you  may  need. 
The  great  lady,  I  know,  wishes  it  so. 

Lincoln:  No,  Mr.  Godspeed,  you  are  very  kind  and  I  doubt  not 
that  Madame  Duchesne  is  the  very  soul  of  hospitality,  but  we  cut  cable 
and  put  off  into  the  current  at  crack  of  day  tomorrow,  and  we  three  can 
make  it  to  New  Orleans  well  enough  with  a  little  good  management.  So  I 
shall  stay  close  by  our  campfire  (then  burning  in  the  twilight)  and  our 
boat. 

Godspeed:  I  beg  you  to  change  your  mind.  You  will  be  most  wel- 
come, and  adding  to  your  supplies  will  be  a  privilege  to  the  noble  lady.  If 
you  will  go  with  me,  you  can  return  in  little  more  than  an  hour  and  spend 
the  night  with  your  companions. 

Lincoln:  No,  good  friend,  my  mind  is  set,  and  I  shall  stay  here 
and  stretch  out  before  the  campfire  and  play  that  I  am  in  the  campaign 
against  Black  Hawk  again. 

Godspeed:  The  barge  of  the  two  voyagers  from  Virginia  and 
Carolina  is  moored  just  below  here.  They  are  now  at  the  great  house  and 
I  know  that  they  would  be  glad  to  exchange  ideas  with  one  from  your  part 
of  the  world. 

Lincoln:  Present  my  compliments  to  the  gentlemen.  Again  I 
thank  you,  Mr.  Godspeed,  but  I  cannot  go  and  am  now  settled  for  the  night 
(stretching  out  before  the  campfire). 

19 


Godspeed:  Only  today  was  I  boasting  to  one  of  the  voyagers,  a 
Mr.  Fairfax  of  Virginia,  that  no  boat  ever  passed  the  Duchesne  plantation 
in  need  of  aid  that  it  did  not  get  it.    I'd  like  to  make  good  upon  that  boast. 

Lincoln:  No,  Mr.  Godspeed,  let  there  be  an  exception  this  time,  in 
order  to  prove  the  rule.    A  thousand  thanks  to  you ! 

Godspeed:  And  to  the  other  voyager  I  said — to  Mister — Mister, 
oh,  what  is  his  name? — Mister — Mr.  Rutledge — 

Lincoln  (sitting  up  and  alert):     Mister  what? 

Godspeed:     Mr.  Rutledge  of  Carolina. 

Lincoln:  Hanks,  don't  you  and  Johnston  think  that  I  ought  to  go 
and  get  a  supply  of  coffee  from  this  plantation  while  we  have  a  chance? 
It's  a  long  pull  yet  to  New  Orleans. 

Hanks  (looking  across  the  campfire  at  Johnston  and  both  smiling) : 
Yes,  Abe.  We  commission  you  to  forage  for  the  supplies.  We'll  stay  here 
an'  keep  house  while  you  are  gone.  But,  remember,  we  cut  cable  at  day- 
break. 

Lincoln:  Mr.  Godspeed,  let  me  put  on  my  coat  and  brush  the  dust 
of  the  Mississippi's  main  current  off  my  ruffled  shirt  and  I  shall  accept 
your  kind  offer  and  go  with  you. 

Godspeed:  Then  the  Duchesne  hospitality  has  not  yet  found  an 
exception. 

Lincoln:  I'm  ready,  Mr.  Godspeed.  Keep  the  fire  going,  boys,  and 
I'll  be  back  before  the  moon  is  an  hour  older. 

Lincoln  and  Godspeed  go. 

Scene  V. 
THE  SHEEN 

The  brilliant  drawing  room  of  the  Duchesne  home.  There  are 
wonderful  pictures  and  paintings  on  the  walls.  The  whole  room  is  radiant 
with  the  atmosphere  of  the  finest  culture.  Uncle  Silas,  an  aged  negro\ 
butler,  is  standing  at  the  open  door,  talking  to  someone  in  the  hallway  be- 
yond. 

Uncle  Silas:  Oh,  yas,  Massa  Linkum,  you  is  got  ter  kum  right  hyar 
an'  sign  yo'  name  on  de  gues'-book  what  Mistess  keeps  fo'  all  what  calls  at 
dis  plantation  fum  de  norf  an'  de  souf  an'  de  eas'  an'  de  wes'. 

Lincoln  (barely  appearing  and  holding  back) :  No,  Silas,  you  peo- 
ple have  been  very  kind  and  the  men  at  my  boat  are  waiting  for  the  sup- 
plies. I  ought  to  hurry  back  to  our  camp  at  the  bayou.  Please  thank 
Madame  Duchesne  a  thousand  times  for  me  and  my  friends. 

Madame  Duchesne  (entering  by  another  door) :  Silas,  what  is  the 
matter? 

Silas:  Mistess,  Mr.  Linkum,  a  gen'men  fum  'way  off  up  de  big 
waters  an'  on  his  way  ter  New  Orleans,  wuz  brought  up  by  de  big  over- 

20 


seer,  Massa  Godspeed,  ter  git  some  he'p  fo'  hisse'f  an'  his  boatmen,  an'  Ah 
is  carr'in'  out  yo'  orders  an'  tryin'  ter  git  him  in  hyar  ter  sign  de  gues'- 
book,  an'  he  be  'scusin'  hisse'f. 

Madame  Duchesne  (advancing  to  the  door  and  extending  her  hand 
to  Lincoln,)  :  Oh,  my  dear  sir,  you  must  come  in  and  add  your  name  to 
the  list  of  those  whom  good  fortune  brings  to  us  as  friends  and  guests  from 
lands  far  away.    You  will  not  deny  me  this  honor,  I  am  sure. 

Lincoln  enters  and  stands  at  full  height  in  the  garb  characteristic 
of  the  people  of  the  Illinois  country.  He  is  striking  in  his  appearance  of 
strength,  honesty,  vigor,  sincerity  and  fearlessness,  and  a  poise  born  of 
these  traits  possesses  him. 

Lincoln:  Madame,  gratitude  to  you  and  those  of  your  plantation 
for  your  aid  I  felt  no  less  deeply  and  sincerely  because  I  was  unwilling  to 
add  my  obscure  name  to  the  list  of  illustrious  visitors  who  have  come  be- 
neath your  kindly  roof. 

Madame  Duchesne:     My  dear  Mr.  Lin — Lin — 

Lincoln:  Lincoln,  Madame,  Abraham  Lincoln,  of  New  Salem,  Illi- 
nois, and  down  the  Sangamon  to  the  Illinois  River  and  thence  into  the 
Father  of  Waters,  and  fortunately  tonight  at  the  Duchesne  plantation. 

Madame  Duchesne:  Ah,  thank  you,  Mr.  Lincoln.  And  now  will 
you  come  to  the  table  and  sign  my  beloved  guest-book? 

She  and  LINCOLN  advance  to  the  table  where  the  guest-book  lies 
open.  They  pause  and  Madame  Duchesne  reads  aloud  some  of  the  names 
on  the  book  and  comments  upon  them. 

Madame  Duchesne  (continuing) :  Here,  Mr.  Lincoln,  is  the  name 
of  Henry  Clay,  of  Kentucky — "Harry  of  the  West,"  as  they  call  him  (Lin- 
coln bows  and  makes  a  sign  of  something  like  adoration). 

Lincoln:  Madame,  I  left  my  hat  in  the  hall,  but  if  you  will  permit 
me,  I  will  bring  it  in,  or  have  Silas  fetch  it,  and  then,  with  your  permission, 
I'll  put  it  on  so  that  I  may  pull  it  off  again  when  you  mention  the  name  of 
our  brave  and  glorious  Henry  Clay. 

Madame  Duchesne:  Ah,  Mr.  Lincoln,  I  have  begun  by  finding  a 
name  close  to  your  big  heart.    Your  heart  is  big,  isn't  it? 

Lincoln:  I  have  no  exact  rule  of  measuring  my  heart,  but  I  have 
an  exact  rule  as  to  the  proper  length  of  my  legs. 

Madame  Duchesne:     Pray,  what  is  that  rule? 

Lincoln:  They  ought  to  be  exactly  long  enough  to  reach  from  my 
body  to  the  ground. 

Madame  Duchesne  (laughing  heartily) :  I  have  been  much  in 
France  and  Great  Britain  and  in  our  own  New  England.  I  am  persuaded 
that  these  places  have  something  to  acquire  from  the  frontiers  of  America. 
These  centers  of  complacent  culture  are  afflicted  with  an  intellectual  pro- 
vincialism that  raises  its  eyebrows  and  imagines  that  upon  our  American 
frontiers  it  will  find  nothing  but  a  reed  shaken  with  the  wind,  and  that 


21 


only  its  own  children,  who  wear  soft  raiment,  are  fit  to  dwell  in  kings' 
houses.  And  (laughing  again)  a  man's  legs  should  be  exactly  long  enough 
to  reach  from  his  body  to  the  ground ! 

Lincoln:  I  see  a  name  on  your  book  that  I  know  well.  It  is  the 
name  of  Parson  Peter  Cartwright  of  Illinois.  And  there  is  another  just 
under  it  that  I  have  heard  of  often.  It  is  the  name  of  Elder  Daniel  Parker 
of  Tennessee. 

Madame  Duchesne:  Yes,  yes,  many  men  come  and  go  along  our 
liquid  highway.  It  so  happened  that  these  two  clerical  gentlemen  were 
here  at  the  same  time.  However,  they  did  not  come  together.  Their 
meeting  at  this  plantation  was  only  by  chance  of  travel.  One  was  going 
up  the  river  to  spread  the  gospel  and  establish  the  dogma  of  one-dip-in- 
running-water  and  the  other  was  going  down  the  river  to  spread  the  gos- 
pel and  establish  the  dogma  of  three-dips-in-standing- water.  In  this  room 
these  devout  men,  both  my  guests,  cast  back  and  forth  the  mint  and  anise 
and  cummin  of  their  disputatious  doctrines,  until  they  were  red  of  face 
and  fiery  of  temper.  At  that  time  the  Marquis  de  La  Fayette  was  touring 
the  United  States,  and  a  part  of  his  entourage  that  embraced  some  of  my 
kindred  were  visiting  this  house  on  their  journey  to  New  Orleans.  One 
of  them  was  a  wag  from  the  Sorbonne  in  Paris.  In  the  midst  of  the  heated 
doctrinal  battle  between  these  reverend  gentlemen,  he  laughingly  inter- 
rupted and  asked  them  if  he  might  tell  them  Voltaire's  story  of  the  two  dis- 
puting Mohammedan  priests  and  the  disciple  of  Averroes,  the  Arabian 
philosopher.  Then  he  told  of  how,  one  day  by  an  oasis,  the  Mohammedan 
theologians  vehemently  argued  on  the  one  hand  that  the  Prophet  wrote 
the  Koran  with  a  feather  plucked  from  the  wing  of  the  Angel  Gabriel,  and 
on  the  other  hand  how  he  wrote  it  with  a  feather  that  fell  from  that  angel's 
wing,  and  how  the  disciple  of  the  philosopher,  traveling  that  way  on  his 
camel,  broke  in  and  asked  them  to  be  persuaded  that  it  might  be  possible 
that  both  of  them  might  be  wrong  and  that  Mohammed  neither  plucked 
the  feather  nor  used  a  fallen  feather.  The  wag  of  the  Sorbonne  stopped 
just  there  in  the  story.  Parson  Cartwright  exclaimed:  "What  did  they 
say  to  the  philosopher?"  Then  the  wag,  making  and  welcoming  his  Vol- 
tairean  chance,  said :  "They  didn't  say  anything  to  him — they  united  and 
boiled  him  in  oil." 

Lincoln  (laughing  heartily):  When  I  get  back  to  Illinois,  I  shall 
not  forget  this  story  on  my  reverend  friend  Peter  Cartwright. 

Madame  Duchesne:  Yes,  and  the  argument  about  dipping  once  or 
thrice  in  this  or  that  sort  of  water  ceased,  and  next  morning  at  the  break- 
fast table  Reverend  Cartwright  invoked  divine  blessings  upon  our  meal 
and  entered  an  earnest  prayer  for  the  success  of  Elder  Parker  in  his  holy 
mission.  And  when  I  saw  the  two  good  men  on  their  way  to  their  boats, 
they  were  arm  in  arm  and  singing  a  hymn  about  "bless'd  be  the  tie  that 
binds." 

22 


Lincoln  (turning  back  the  pages  of  the  guest-book):  I  see  other 
names  here  that  spell  a  bit  of  American  history. 

Madame  Duchesne:  Yes,  there  is  one  that  was  written  many  years 
ago.  It  is  the  name  of  Daniel  Boone.  He  voyaged  this  way  alone  in  a 
canoe  made  of  buffalo  hides.  They  say  he  wore  a  coon-skin  cap  and 
was  clothed  in  buckskin  and  carried  a  very  long  rifle.  He  was  a  strange, 
kindly,  quiet  man.  He  seemed  to  be  looking  afar  off  all  the  time.  He 
stopped  but  one  night  and  would  not  leave  his  camp  on  the  shore.  The 
overseer  loaded  his  canoe  with  supplies  and  took  the  guest-book  down  to 
the  river  for  him  to  sign.  He  signed  just  there  (pointing)  as  they  held  the 
book  in  the  light  of  his  campfire.  I  wonder  if  old  Boone  is  still  living?  In 
the  Journal  of  Captain  Merriwether  Lewis  and  Captain  William  Clark, 
recounting  the  happenings  of  their  great  expedition  to  the  Pacific,  it  is 
told  that  far  up  a  great  river  beyond  the  prairies  and  on  the  slopes  of  vast 
western  mountains,  where  no  white  man  could  be  imagined  as  being,  a 
lonely  canoe  put  off  from  shore  and  in  it  was  this  strange  old  man,  Boone, 
with  that  same  far-away  look  in  his  eyes. 

Lincoln:  In  our  cabin  in  Kentucky  my  mother  used  to  tell  how  the 
Boones  and  the  Lincolns  were  kin  and  how  the  first  Lincoln  came  out  from 
Virginia  with  old  Daniel. 

Madame  Duchesne:     Are  you,  Mr.  Lincoln,  of  Virginia  stock? 

Lincoln:  I  am,  and  I  am  not.  The  old  family  story  goes  that  the 
Lincolns  who  came  from  England  landed  and  settled  in  Massachusetts 
soon  after  the  little  incident  at  or  near  or  around  Plymouth  Rock.  From 
Massachusetts  the  family  filtered  into  Virginia.  My  Jamestown-ear  was 
charmed  and  my  Plymouth-heart  was  pained  just  now  when  the  slaving 
blacks  were  singing  in  your  plantation. 

Madame  Duchesne:  People  are  the  blood  of  our  nation,  Mr.  Lin- 
coln. They  circulate  in  the  body  politic.  Thus  the  ideas  and  sympathies 
of  one  section  may  be  transfused  into  another  section.  This  transfusion 
makes  for  understanding.  God  grant  that  it  may  go  on  fast  enough  to  give 
us  men  who  can  stand  like  Plymouth  Rock  for  eternal  justice,  and  yet  who 
can  approach  that  justice  like  the  strong  but  gentle  tide  at  Jamestown. 
You  understand  me,  do  you  not,  Mr.  Lincoln? 

Lincoln:  Yes,  Madame,  I  understand.  These  men  can  and  will 
arise  and  do  their  work,  if  the  plucked-feather  prejudice  of  cold  bread  and 
the  fallen-feather  prejudice  of  hot  biscuit  do  not  boil  the  nation  in  oil. 

Madame  Duchesne:  Ah,  the  settlements  of  Kentucky  and  the 
prairies  of  Illinois  quickly  absorb  and  very  brilliantly  use  the  wit  and  wis- 
dom of  the  great  Voltaire. 

Lincoln:  I  know  very  little  of  him.  In  the  settlements  and  on  the 
prairies  books  are  scarce.  A  bibulous  fellow  named  Jack  Kelso  in  our 
neighborhood  knows  Shakespeare  and  Burns  by  heart.  He  loafs  and 
drinks  and  fishes  and  declaims  Shakespeare  and  recites  Burns  from  morn- 

23 


ing  to  night,  and  then  by  moonlight.  From  him  and  from  books  that  he 
and  Menton  Graham  have  lent  me,  I  have  gained  something.  The  Bible, 
a  history  of  England,  a  history  of  the  United  States,  Robinson  Crusoe, 
The  Pilgrim's  Progress,  ^sop's  Fables,  Blackstone's  Commentaries,  a  Life 
of  Washington,  a  Life  of  Patrick  Henry,  Euclid's  Geometry,  and  a  few 
fragments  constitute  the  basis  of  all  that  I  know  outside  of  personal  ex- 
perience. 

Madame  Duchesne:  But  you  make  wonderful  use  of  your  re- 
sources. 

Lincoln:     Thank  you,  Madame  Duchesne. 

Madame  Duchesne:  Mr.  Lincoln,  won't  you  sign  my  book  (Lin- 
coln signs)  and  then  allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  friends  who  are 
now  with  me?  I  have  guests  from  various  quarters  who  use  that  great, 
watery  highway  out  there  (pointing  toward  the  river)  on  their  ways  to  the 
far  South.  One  is  Lieutenant  Jefferson  Davis,  who  has  recently  graduated 
at  West  Point,  and  who  is  finding  his  way  to  his  home  in  Mississippi  be- 
fore taking  his  post  in  the  Northwest.  Another  is  Mr.  Fairfax  of  Virginia, 
and  another  is  Mr.  Rutledge  of  Carolina. 

Lincoln:     Will  you  kindly  repeat  the  name  of  the  last  gentleman? 

Madame  Duchesne:  Rutledge,  Edward  Rutledge,  a  descendant  of 
one  of  the  signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence. 

Lincoln:     That  is  a  wonderful  name,  and  I  love  it  over  much. 

Madame  Duchesne:  The  great  Declaration  was  signed  by  others, 
but  it  was  written  by  the  immortal  Thomas  Jefferson. 

Lincoln:  Yes,  Madame,  its  opening  words  were  read  to  me  long 
ago — very  long  ago! — by  the  light  of  a  pine-knot  fire  in  a  cabin  in  Ken- 
tucky by  my  blessed  mother.  She  had  me  to  line  out  and  spell  the  biggest 
and  longest  word  in  it — the  word  unalienable. 

Madame  Duchesne:  And,  pray,  what  do  you  mean  by  lining  out 
the  word  and  how  did  you  spell  it? 

Lincoln:  If  you  will  pardon  the  methods  of  my  backwoods  school- 
teacher, Mr.  Zachariah  Riney,  this  is  what  we  called  lining  out  and  spell- 
ing: U-n,  un,  there's  your  un;  a,  there's  your  a;  un-a;  1-i,  li,  there's  your 
li;  un-a-li;  e-n,  en,  there's  your  en;  un-a-li-en;  a,  there's  your  a;  un-a-li- 
en-a;  b-l-e,  ble,  there's  your  ble;  un-a-li-en-a-ble — unalienable.  As  a  boy, 
I  spelt  and  pronounced  that  last  syllable  bull. 

Madame  Duchesne  (laughing) :     That  is  delightful ! 

Lincoln:  But  since  that  night  by  my  mother's  fire  in  the  cabin,  I 
have  spelt  down  many  meeting  houses  full  of  scholars,  and  so  I  have  im- 
proved on  the  spelling  of  the  last  syllable. 

Madame  Duchesne:  Has  Thomas  Jefferson  ever  visited  your  part 
of  the  country  in  your  lifetime,  Mr.  Lincoln? 

Lincoln:  No,  but  I  have  learned  his  Declaration  by  heart  and  de- 
claimed it  on  the  Fourth  of  July. 


24 


Madame  Duchesne:  Mr.  Jefferson  was  in  France  in  the  days  of 
the  rise  of  the  great  Revolution.  My  kinspeople  were  there  and  cast  their 
lot  with  the  cause  of  the  immortal  Girondists.  They  believed  in  true, 
democratic  republicanism,  and  to  their  brave  faith  they  brought  a  splendid 
devotion.  However,  they  questioned  the  plucked-feather  dogma  of  royal- 
ism  and  the  fallen-feather  dogma  of  Jacobinism,  and  so  Madame  Guillo- 
tine boiled  them  in  oil.  My  grandfather  chanted  the  Marseillaise  with 
Brissot,  Vergniaud,  Ducos  and  Gensonne  in  the  tumbrils  on  the  way  to 
the  Place  de  Greve.  My  own  father  was  sent  by  Madame  Roland  to 
America  when  a  mere  boy.  The  iron  of  freedom — the  right  sort  of  free- 
dom— was  fastened  deeply  in  the  soul  of  Mr.  Jefferson  in  those  fearful 
days,  and  that  is  why,  when  he  wrote  about  the  black  slaves  of  this  coun- 
try in  his  Notes  on  Virginia,  he  used  these  words :  "Indeed,  I  tremble  for 
my  country  when  I  reflect  that  God  is  just,  and  that  his  justice  cannot 
sleep  forever.  The  abolition  of  slavery  is  not  impossible  and  ought  not  to 
be  despaired  of." 

Lincoln:  Madame!  Madame!  did  Thomas  Jefferson  write  and  sign 
those  words?    Have  you  the  book  where  they  are  printed? 

Madame  Duchesne:  Yes,  Mr.  Lincoln  (getting  the  book  from  a 
case  near-by),  and  it  is  your  own  and  for  your  reading  on  the  rest  of  your 
journey  (presenting  the  book  to  him). 

Lincoln:  Ten  thousand  thanks  to  you,  Madame!  I  shall  prize  the 
book  more  than  you  can  ever  know. 

Madame  Duchesne:  Perhaps  you  will  put  off  in  your  boat  and, 
dropping  down  the  stream,  will  begin  the  first  chapter  of  the  book  to  the 
strange  and  plaintive  refrain  of  my  two  thousand  slaves  in  the  cotton  and 
cane  singing  their  songs  about  walking  and  talking  with  the  angels  and — 
and — 

Lincoln:     Telling  "Gawd"  how  we  do  them. 

Madame  Duchesne:  Yes,  "Ah'm  gwine  t'  tell  Gawd  how  you  do 
me" — that  is  a  part  of  the  refrain.  And  many  of  their  songs  are  about 
"Canaan"  as  their  "happy  home,"  and  about  a  "sweet  chariot"  that  they 
are  always  begging  and  pleading  to  "swing  low."  I  say,  as  your  retreat- 
ing boat  goes  southward  and  you  hold  Jefferson's  burning  words  against 
slavery  before  your  eyes,  you  will  possibly  think  that  Madame  Duchesne 
is  an  academic  theorist  and  keeps  the  word  of  hope  to  the  ear  and  breaks 
it  to  the  soul.  But,  Mr.  Lincoln,  a  very  great  philosopher  said :  "In  the 
design  of  God,  time  appears  an  element  of  truth;  yet  to  demand  from  a 
single  day  the  definite  truth,  is  to  ask  of  Nature  more  than  she  can  afford. 
Impatience  creates  illusions  and  ruins  in  the  place  of  truth ;  deceptions  are 
but  truths  plucked  ere  they  are  ripe." 

Lieutenant  Jefferson  Davis,  in  the  army  uniform  of  that  period, 
Mr.  Fairfax,  Mr.  Rutledge  and  Monsieur  Montjean,  the  family  tutor, 
enter. 


25 


Lincoln:     Your  guests. 

Madame  Duchesne:  Mr.  Davis,  allow  me  to  present  Mr.  Lincoln 
(Lincoln  and  Davis  shake  hands).  Mr.  Fairfax,  Mr.  Rutledge,  Monsieur 
Montjean,  allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  Mr.  Lincoln  (Lincoln  and  the 
three  shake  hands  cordially). 

Davis:  Mr.  Lincoln,  my  servant  ascertained  from  your  servants 
down  at  the  river  that  you  were  voyaging  to  New  Orleans. 

Lincoln:  The  men  at  the  river  are  my  friends  and  kinsmen.  We 
are,  we  hope,  on  the  last  lap  of  our  long  trip. 

Davis:  The  Mississippi,  in  its  lower  reaches,  is  the  means  by 
which  the  wealth  of  a  domain  gets  afloat  for  the  building,  in  this  and  suc- 
ceeding centuries,  of  an  empire  that  would  stagger  the  combined  imagina- 
tions of  an  Argonaut,  a  Carthagenian  and  a  Britisher. 

Lincoln:  The  Argonaut  is  a  fable,  the  desert  has  swallowed 
Carthage  and  my  Blackstone's  Commentaries  tell  me  that  no  slave  may 
breathe  the  free  air  of  England. 

Davis:  Eli  Whitney's  cotton  gin  has  stationed  itself  at  the  heart 
of  this  domain,  whose  boundaries  are  climatic  and  whose  area  is  a  monop- 
oly, and  this  great  machine  is  throbbing !  throbbing !  like  a  powerful  heart, 
and,  as  it  throbs,  it  clothes  the  world,  while  new  and  boundless  demands 
produce  the  opening  and  cultivation  of  vast,  additional  lands  that  shall 
groan  and  whiten  under  the  tillage  of  special  labor  that  God,  in  his  infinite 
wisdom,  has  given  to  civilization  for  the  fulfillment  of  his  inscrutable  ends. 

Lincoln:  It  is  passing  strange  that  matters  of  God's  inscrutable 
ends  should  be  confided  to  a  Mississippian  and  omitted  from  the  informa- 
tion imparted  to  a  Galilean. 

Madame  Duchesne:  Mr.  Fairfax  and  Mr.  Rutledge,  I  wish  you  to 
tell  Mr.  Lincoln  of  your  missions  in  the  far  South. 

Fairfax:  I  came  out  of  Virginia,  by  light  boats,  down  the  Green- 
brier and  Kanawha  to  the  Ohio,  where  I  joined  Mr.  Rutledge,  who  came 
out  of  Carolina,  by  the  New  River  into  the  Kanawha  and  then  into  the 
Ohio.  We  united  forces  at  our  meeting  in  Kentucky,  and  there  secured 
a  commodious  barge  and  excellent  oarsmen.  I  am  seeking  to  find  and  pur- 
chase a  young  slave- woman,  who  was  carried  away  from  my  estate  on  the 
Potomac  by  the  British  forces  while  I  was  serving  with  a  Virginia  regi- 
ment under  General  Harrison  in  the  Thames  and  Lundy's  Lane  campaigns. 
This  slave  is  now  a  woman,  but  when  she  was  taken  from  my  plantation, 
she  was  a  child.  Her  poor  black  mother  is  our  ruling  mammy,  and  we  love 
her  and  she  loves  us  as  kindred  bone  loves  kindred  bone  and  kindred  flesh 
loves  kindred  flesh.  From  recent  rumors,  it  seems  that  the  British  com- 
mander took  the  girl  to  the  West  Indies  and  there  declared  her  free.  For 
years  no  tidings  of  her  came.  Her  poor  mother  has  a  stricken  heart  dying 
in  her  breast.  I  spent  large  sums  to  secure  information  about  the  lost  girl. 
Her  first  name  is  Mandy,  and,  if  she  remembers,  her  full  name  is  Mandy 

26 


Fairfax.  She  is  a  genuine  African.  A  possible  clue  has  reached  me  that 
I  may  find  her  at  New  Orleans.  Old  Mammy's  heart  is  following  me  down 
this  river.  I  hope  to  find  and  buy  back  the  lost  child  and  restore  her,  as  a 
freed  woman,  to  her  mother  in  Virginia. 

Lincoln:  Sir,  do  you  need  an  extra  oar  in  your  boat?  I  can  tie  a 
rope  around  all  the  Clary's  Grove  Boys,  and,  standing  on  a  stump,  I  can 
lift  them,  with  one  hand,  two  feet  off  the  ground. 

Rutledge:  A  Spanish  ship  in  our  waters  had  on  board  an  African 
tribesman — the  great  chief  of  his  tribe.  He,  acting  for  the  Spaniard  in 
command  of  the  ship,  stole  a  young  female  slave  named  Cynthia  from  my 
plantation  dock  in  the  river.  Before  we  could  rescue  the  girl,  the  ship 
dropped  down  the  stream  and  put  to  sea.  Cynthia  was  beloved  by  all  my 
children,  and  was  the  devoted  nurse  of  my  little  blue-eyed,  golden-haired 
Anne — 

Lincoln  (tense) :  Mr.  Rutledge !  did  you  say  blue-eyed  and  golden- 
haired  ?  Have  you  ever  seen  the  blue  sky  bending  over  the  waving,  golden 
wheat  of  the  prairie? 

Rutledge:  No,  Mr.  Lincoln,  I  have  never  been  farther  west  than 
this  point.  But  the  rest  of  my  story  is  soon  told.  We  have  vague  informa- 
tion that  Cynthia  may  now  be  found  at  New  Orleans  or  Mobile.  I  go  in 
search  of  her  and  my  little  Anne's  heart  is  following  me  anxiously  down 
the  river. 

Lincoln  (softly  and  aside):  The  heart  of  somebody  named  Anne 
is  following  him  down  this  river!  (to  Mr.  Rutledge)  Do  you  need  an  ex- 
tra oar?  I  can  bundle  all  the  Clary's  Grove  Boys  in  one  bunch,  put  three 
barrels  of  flour  on  them,  throw  in  two  blacksmith's  anvils,  tie  a  rope  around 
the  whole  aggregation,  stand  on  a  stump,  and,  with  one  hand,  toss  them 
over  the  Milky  Way. 

Rutledge  (laughing  in  chorus  with  the  others):  Thank  you,  Mr. 
Lincoln.  Mr.  Fairfax  and  I  are  traveling  together  and  our  oarsmen  are 
numerous  and  strong.  It  was  our  preference  to  travel  as  we  do,  and,  if 
possible,  avoid  the  uncertainties  of  the  temperamental  steamboats  that 
now  ply  the  river. 

Lincoln:  Mr.  Rutledge,  did  any  of  your  kin  from  Carolina  go  out 
to  the  Illinois  country? 

Rutledge:  Yes,  my  father's  kinsman,  on  his  paternal  side,  went 
out  there.  It  has  been  years  since  we  heard  of  him.  The  great  West  swal- 
lows men  up  and  they  forget  and  are  forgotten. 

Lincoln:  Was  his  ancestor  a  signer  of  the  Declaration  of  Indepen- 
dence ? 

Rutledge:     Yes,  that  is  a  part  of  the  family's  hereditaments. 

Lincoln:  I  think  that  I  know  your  kinsman.  He  lives  at  New 
Salem,  Illinois.  And,  Mr.  Rutledge,  you  should  come  out  and  see — see — 
our  blue  sky  and  waving,  golden  wheat  on  the  prairie. 

27 


Rutledge:  Indeed,  some  day  I  hope  to  go  to  Illinois  and  the  won- 
derful lands  beyond. 

Madame  Duchesne:  Gentlemen,  I  beg  you  to  excuse  Lieutenant 
Davis  and  me  for  a  moment.  We  wish  to  examine  the  maps  in  the  library, 
by  which  he  is  to  find  his  way  across  the  country  on  horseback  to  his  home. 

Madame  Duchesne  and  Davis  go  out. 

Fairfax:  Monsieur  Mont  jean,  some  of  these  pictures  (indicating) 
relate  to  scenes  and  places  in  France  associated  with  Madame  Duchesne's 
paternal  ancestors.  Her  mother's  people  are  the  Granvilles  on  the  Cape 
Fear  in  Carolina,  whom  I  know  well.  Won't  you  kindly  point  out  the  pic- 
tures that  are  of  special  interest  in  connection  with  Madame's  family  in 
France  ? 

Rutledge  (advancing  to  a  picture) :  This  picture  does  not  relate  to 
France.  It  is  a  splendid  reproduction  of  the  old  Granville  home  in  Caro- 
lina.   Fairfax,  you  and  I  knew  it  well  when  we  were  boys. 

Fairfax:  Yes,  in  that  old  home,  I  danced  for  the  first  time  with 
the  lady  that  became  Mrs.  Fairfax.  But,  Monsieur  is  going  to  show  us 
pictures  that  call  us  to  France. 

Mont  jean  (coming  forward):  I  shall  take  great  plaisir,  gentle- 
men. A  journey  around  theese  walls  ees  to  me  something  of  a  return  to  La 
Belle  France.  Thees  (indicating)  ees  a  landscape  by  Corot  that  only 
thees  winter  I  brought  weeth  me  to  New  Orleans  by  ze  ship  from  Bor- 
deaux. It  ees  a  scene  on  ze  Loire,  and  shows  across  ze  valley  ze  old  cha- 
teau, where,  it  ees  said,  Catherine  de  Medici  leeved  and  where  ze  Due  de 
Guise  met  hees  death.  In  ze  foreground  ees,  perhaps,  a  glimpse  of  ze 
chapel  where  ze  standards  of  Jean  d'  Arc  were  blessed. 

Lincoln:  That  is  a  beautiful  valley.  It  seems  to  me  that  waving, 
golden  wheat  ought  to  grow  in  that  valley  and  a  wonderfully  blue  sky 
ought  to  bend  above  it. 

Mont  jean:  Yes,  ze  sky  ees  blue  and  ze  wheat  ees  golden.  Ze  next 
scene  (passing  on)  is  a  conception  of  Constable,  ze  artiste  Anglais,  whose 
own  country  deed  not  recognize  heem  until  France  had  hung  hees  pictures 
and  given  heem  a  bit  of  laurel.  Ze  effect  ees  that  of  a  road  up  ze  great 
valley  of  ze  Aisne  where  farms  and  scenes  indicate  true  conditions  in 
France,  but,  at  ze  same  time,  betray  things  close  to  ze  heart  of  thees  gifted 
Anglais. 

Fairfax:  That  valley  of  the  Aisne  is  known  in  history  as  one  of 
the  battlegrounds  of  France  against  recurrent  invasion  and  destruction. 

Mont  jean:  Yes,  Meester  Fairfax,  France  has  always  leeved  her 
life  on  ze  edge  of  ze  abyss.  In  thees  connection,  I  will  ask  you  gentlemen 
to  omit  some  of  ze  other  pictures  for  ze  moment,  and  go  weeth  me  here  to 
thees  painting  by  Vernet  of  ze  ancestral  chateau  of  Madame  Duchesne's 
kindred  at  Chalons  sur  Marne.  Ze  winding  course  of  ze  Marne  and  ze 
towers  of  ze  town  of  Chalons  on  eets  bank  stand  sombre  and  silent  against 


^y 


ze  eastern  sky.  Ze  beginning  of  ze  long  story  of  France's  ever-recurring 
and  ever-triumphant  struggle  to  exeest  was  enacted  at  Chalons  upon  ze 
Marne.  You  gentlemen  know  ze  story  week  In  ze  year  451  A.D.,  just 
here  at  Chalons  upon  ze  Marne,  ze  founders  of  France  began  ze  endless 
game  of  saving  civilization,  when  Attilla  ze  Hun  emerged  weeth  an  army 
greater  than  that  of  Xerxes  and  desolated  ze  Byzantine  empire  and  then, 
crossing  ze  Rhine,  turned  toward  ze  Seine  and  ze  plains  of  Italy.  Three  hun- 
dred thousand  dead  lay  upon  thees  Marne  field,  and  Western  Europe  was 
left  in  ze  dark  centuries  to  grope  eets  way  toward  ze  rebirth  and  ze  devel- 
opment of  civilization.  Ah,  near  thees  old  castle  on  ze  Marne,  in  ancient 
days,  France  stood  weeth  her  back  to  ze  wall  and  fought — and  won ! 

Lincoln:  Sir,  I  am  far  from  being  a  warlike  character,  but  I,  re- 
membering La  Fayette  and  Rochambeau,  admit  that  you,  for  a  second, 
stir  my  peaceful  blood  into  a  wish  that  I  might  have  been  there,  leading 
my  old  company  of  the  Black  Hawk  war,  with  the  four  hundred  Kentuck- 
ians,  under  George  Rogers  Clark,  covering  my  flanks.    Who  knows? 


Scene  VI. 
THE  AWAKENING 

The  sellers  and  buyers  of  slaves,  together  with  the  slaves  to  be  auc- 
tioned, are  in  the  slave-market  at  Neiv  Orleans.  The  usual  milling  about 
is  taking  place.  The  sales  are  in  progress.  The  slaves  are  men  and  women 
of  all  ages  and  there  are  a  few  little  slave-children.  The  scene  is  typical 
of  a  far-Southern  slave-market  of  that  period.  There  are  the  buyers,  the 
sellers,  the  brokers,  the  slaves,  and  finally,  the  auctioneer  mounted  on  the 
block  from  which  sales  are  cried.  Lincoln  and  his  two  companions, 
Hanks  and  Johnston,  stand  there  as  spectators.  Godspeed,  the  chief 
overseer  of  the  Duchesne  plantation,  is  present.  He,  two  days  after  Lin- 
coln, has  come  down  the  river  with  Mr.  Fairfax  and  Mr.  Rutledge. 
There  is  a  halt  in  the  proceedings  while  the  auctioneer  and  several  inter- 
ested buyers  or  sellers  inspect  some  records  and  go  through  the  details  of 
signing  some  papers.  Mr.  Fairfax  and  Mr.  Rutledge,  who  are  quartered 
at  the  St.  Louis  Hotel,  are  expected  upon  the  scene  at  any  moment.  Pros- 
pective buyers  go  about  inspecting  the  slaves.  They  look  at  their  tongues, 
teeth,  bodies  and  general  physical  equipment.  Godspeed  is  standing  near 
Lincoln. 

Godspeed:     What  do  you  say  about  all  this,  Mr.  Lincoln? 

Lincoln:  I  say  what  Madame  Duchesne's  book  tells  me  that 
Thomas  Jefferson,  the  author  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  said,  and 
he  said  this:  "Indeed  I  tremble  for  my  country  when  I  remember  that 
God  is  just  and  that  His  justice  cannot  sleep  forever — the  abolition  of 
slavery  is  not  impossible,  and  ought  never  to  be  despaired  of."  Those  are 
the  words  of  Jefferson. 

29 


Godspeed:  Do  you  know  that  I  am  here  today  as  a  buyer  of  slaves 
for  Madame  Duchesne? 

Lincoln:     My  God!  as  a  buyer  of  slaves  for  Madame  Duchesne? 

Godspeed:  Yes,  but  a  buyer  only  of  those  slaves  whose  history, 
needs  and  conditions  appeal  specially  to  her  object  of  arranging  some  sort 
of  resale  or  reconveyance  to  their  original  masters,  if  kind  and  worthy, 
where  they  may  be  once  more  united  with  their  own  kindred.  The  slaves 
that  I  am  able  to  buy  will  go  to  the  Duchesne  plantation,  and  will  there 
work  under  the  most  beneficent  conditions,  while  the  great  and  good  lady 
arranges  her  plans  for  their  home-goings. 

Lincoln:  Madame  Duchesne's  investments  in  the  slave-market 
will  not  be  subject  to  the  corruption  of  moth  and  rust  nor  exposed  to  the 
pilfering  of  thieves. 

Godspeed:  I  am  looking  for  Mr.  Fairfax  and  Mr.  Rutledge  at  any 
moment.  They  are  at  the  St.  Louis  Hotel  on  Royal  Street.  They  have 
commissioned  me  to  seek  and  find,  if  possible,  Mandy  and  Cynthia,  the  two 
black  girls  taken  from  their  plantations  in  Virginia  and  Carolina.  So  far, 
no  females  in  any  way  answering  their  descriptions  have  appeared. 

The  Auctioneer  is  taking  his  place  on  the  block  and  preparing  to 
cry  the  sale  of  a  stalwart  young  black  man. 

Auctioneer:  Now,  gentlemen,  your  attention,  if  you  please!  I 
shall  next  sell  at  public  auction,  at  the  upset  price  of  nine  hundred  dollars, 
this  splendid  specimen  (bringing  the  slave  forward)  of  the  Guinea  nigger 
crossed  on  the  Polynesian — an  excellent  combination  that  we  call  the 
Guineapol.  His  father  was  brought  from  the  coast  of  Africa  by  Captain 
Truefaith  in  his  good  ship  Hope  Anchor,  sailing  out  of  Providence,  in 
1802,  and  his  mother  was  brought  from  the  South  Seas  by  Captain  Friend- 
love  in  1804,  in  his  sloop  Honest  John,  sailing  out  of  Boston.  His  name  is 
Scipio  Africanus,  and  his  present  owner  is  the  executor  of  an  estate  upon 
our  great  Delta.  He  is  twenty-two  years  old.  He  is  a  good  worker ;  of  ex- 
cellent disposition ;  in  perfect  health ;  and  he  knows  cotton,  corn  and  cane 
as  you  know  the  fingers  on  your  hands.  What  am  I  offered  above  the  up- 
set? Come,  gentlemen,  the  upset  is  nine  hundred  dollars,  and  he's  going! 
going !  at  nine  hundred !  nine  hundred  dollars !    Do  I  hear  a  bid  ? 

First  Bidder:     Nine  fifty. 

Auctioneer:  Nine  fifty  is  the  bid.  Going!  going!  at  nine  fifty. 
Nine  fifty  it  is.  Do  I  hear  a  raise?  Nine  fifty!  Nine  fifty!  Do  you  make 
it  .  .  . 

Second  Bidder:     One  thousand. 

Auctioneer:  Then  one  thousand  it  is.  And  are  there  gentlemen 
here  who  will  top  that?    What  am  I  off ered ?    Going  at  one — 

First  Bidder:     Fifty  more. 

Auctioneer:  And  now  it's  one  thousand  and  fifty  dollars.  What 
am  I  offered  above  this,  gentlemen?    going !  going !  at — 

30 


Second  Bidder:     Eleven  hundred. 

Auctioneer:  That's  right,  good  people,  this  slave  is  a  fine  buy  at 
fifteen  hundred  dollars.    Going  at  eleven — 

First  Bidder:     Fifty  more. 

Auctioneer:  Fifty  more  it  is,  and  the  Guineapol  is  going!  going! 
at  eleven  fifty — eleven  fifty — eleven  fifty!  Make  it  twelve!  Going  at 
eleven  fifty!    Who  makes  it  twelve?    Going  at  eleven  fif — 

Second  Bidder:     Twelve  hundred,  I  make  it. 

Auctioneer:  Twelve  hundred  dollars  I  am  offered.  Come  on  fast, 
gentlemen!  Going  at  twelve  hundred — twelve  hundred — am  I  offered 
more?  Going  at  twelve  hundred — do  you  increase  it? — a  great  bargain, 
gentlemen,  and  it's  going  at  twelve  hundred  dollars !  All  done  ?  I  say  go- 
ing at  twelve  hundred — fair  warning! — going  at  twelve  hundred,  once! — 
going  at  twelve  hundred,  twice! — going  at  twelve  hundred — look  out! — at 
twelve  hundred  three  times  and  sold!  to  that  gentleman  on  the  left  who 
wears  the  big  black  hat  and  the  long  heavy  watch  chain.  Please  announce 
yourself,  sir. 

Second  Bidder:  Sold  to  me,  Colonel  Tiberius  Gaius  Gracchus 
Freeman,  of  Liberty  Grove,  Independence  County,  Mississippi. 

Auctioneer:  Scipio  Africanus  is  sold  to  Colonel  Tiberius  Gaius 
Gracchus  Freeman,  of  Liberty  Grove,  Independence  County,  Mississippi. 
Colonel,  we  will  arrange  the  papers  and  payment. 

The  Auctioneer  and  the  purchaser  turn  aside  to  close  the  matter  by 
payment  and  signing  of  papers.  The  group  of  slaves  begin  chanting  a 
plaintive  and  inarticulate  refrain,  half  of  sorrow  and  half  of  excitement, 
and  some  of  them  bend  their  heads  between  their  knees  and  weep,  or  are 
solemnly  silent.    Meanwhile,  the  inspections  by  prospective  buyers  go  on. 

Godspeed:  Here  are  Mr.  Fairfax  and  Mr.  Rutledge  (the  two  ar- 
rive) in  great  haste. 

Fairfax:  Mr.  Lincoln,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  again  (shaking  LIN- 
COLN'S hand). 

Rutledge  (likewise  shaking  his  hand):  Mr.  Lincoln,  it  is  a  pleas- 
ure to  see  you  once  more. 

Lincoln:  Gentlemen,  I  want  you  to  know  my  friends  and  kinsmen, 
Mr.  Hanks  and  Mr.  Johnston  (they  are  cordially  greeted  by  Mr.  Fairfax 
and  Mr.  Rutledge). 

Fairfax:  We  came  here  in  great  haste  bearing  good  news  about 
our  Mandy.  At  the  hotel  I  had  dispatches  from  some  of  my  searchers  that 
Mandy  is  in  humane  hands  on  an  island  plantation  below  the  city.  I  shall 
go  there  by  a  steamboat  today  and  secure  the  woman.  Then  I  shall  return 
by  ship  to  Norfolk,  and,  when  I  reach  Virginia,  I  shall  give  Mandy  to  her 
mother  and  immediately  manumit  them  both. 

Rutledge:  I  have  no  news  from  Cynthia — only  a  vague  rumor  that 
the  brutal  Spaniard  who  stole  her  is  with  her  in  New  Orleans  and  may  sell 

31 


her  at  one  of  the  slave-markets.  I  have  not  inspected  the  slaves  on  display 
here.  I  must  inspect  them  very  carefully.  Possibly  Cynthia  may  be 
among  them  (beginning  a  round  of  inspection). 

Auctioneer:  And  now,  good  citizens,  I  am  able  to  offer  you  a  bar- 
gain in  a  peculiar  combination.  It  is  a  combination  of  old  age  and  youth 
(bringing  forward  a  very  old  negro  woman  and  little  black  child).  These 
two  are  to  be  sold  together.  They  are  Virginia  blacks.  Their  upset  price 
is  only  six  hundred  dollars.  Their  former  master  lives  in  the  Valley  of 
Virginia.  Bankruptcy  and  the  law  took  these  slaves  from  him  and  threw 
them  into  the  hands  of  the  traders.  You  know  the  habit  of  the  Virginians 
to  seek  out  and  buy  back  their  lost  slaves.  The  woman  is  old,  but  she  can 
card  and  spin,  and  she  will  teach  these  arts  to  the  little  black,  who  is  her 
granddaughter.  For  the  two,  the  upset  is  six  hundred  dollars.  What  am 
I  offered  above  that? 

Godspeed:  Do  you  give  the  name  and  address  of  the  Virginia 
family  from  which  they  come  ? 

Auctioneer:  Yes,  of  course,  the  buyer  is  entitled  to  a  complete  rec- 
ord of  these  slaves. 

Godspeed:     May  I  speak  with  the  old  woman? 

Auctioneer:  Certainly,  sir.  And  now,  while  the  gentleman  exer- 
cises his  right  (Godspeed  goes  close  to  the  old  black  woman  and  talks  to 
her),  let  us  see  how  the  bids  run.  The  upset  is  six  hundred  dollars  for  the 
two.  Who  goes  above  that  ?  Going  at  six  hundred — going  at  six  hundred 
— who'll  make  it  six  fifty? — going — 

First  Bidder:     Six  fifty. 

Auctioneer:  Ah,  thank  you,  and  six  fifty  it  is.  Going  at  six  hun- 
dred and  fifty  dollars ! — going  at  six — 

Second  Bidder:     Seven  hundred. 

Auctioneer:  That's  the  way  to  do  it!  going  at  seven  hundred,  and 
who  goes  above  that?  Going  at  seven  hundred,  and  the  greatest  bargain 
of  the  ages!  Citizens,  lend  me  your  ears  and  loosen  your  pursestrings ! 
Going  at  seven  hun — 

First  Bidder:     Seven  fifty. 

Auctioneer:  This  gentleman  knows  a  great  bargain  when  he  sees 
it — going  at  seven  fifty! — seven — 

Godspeed  (turning  from  the  aged  woman) :     One  thousand  dollars. 

Auctioneer:  Ah,  you  are  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman.  Do  I  hear 
an  increase?  Going  at  one  thousand — one  thousand — one  thousand  dol- 
lars! Do  you  top  that,  any  of  you?  Going  at  one  thousand,  once! — fair 
warning! — going,  I  say,  at  one  thousand  dollars  for  this  old  black  carder 
and  spinner  and  her  grandchild.  Going  at  one  thousand,  twice! — take 
warning! — going  at  one  thousand,  three  times,  and  sold!  to  this  gentleman 
and  scholar. 

Godspeed:  Sold  to  Madame  Duchesne  of  Marne  Chateau,  Louis- 
iana. 

32 


The  Auctioneer  and  Godspeed  go  apart  for  a  moment  for  the  usual 
formalities  of  consummating  the  sale.  A  low  humming  or  mumbling  of 
distress  comes  from  the  slaves  as  they  wait. 

Rutledge  (returning  in  haste  and  excitement  from  his  round  among 
the  slaves  and  speaking  to  Fairfax  and  Lincoln)  :  The  cursed  Spaniard 
has  Cynthia  in  a  dingy  hack  with  the  curtains  drawn.  He  has  her  behind 
that  wall  in  the  narrow  street  near  the  canal,  and  his  plan  is  to  come  at  the 
end  of  the  sale,  when  the  buyers  are  few,  and  sell  her  while  his  disguised 
henchman  buys  her  in,  so  that  he  afterwards  may  take  a  deed  from  the 
henchman.  This,  he  thinks,  will  give  him  some  sort  of  a  color  of  title  to 
obscure,  in  a  measure,  his  theft  of  the  girl  at  my  plantation.  The  Spaniard 
left  the  hack  for  a  moment  to  go  after  a  drink  of  brandy,  and  the  constable, 
whom  I  had  employed,  crept  near  and  spoke  with  Cynthia.  This  Spaniard 
is  in  possession  of  stolen  property.  If  I  recover  Cynthia,  my  first  act  will 
be  to  give  her  complete  freedom  and  take  her  back  to  my  little  Anne,  as  her 
beloved  nurse  serving  for  lawful  wages.  Mr.  Fairfax !  Mr.  Lincoln !  what 
would  you  advise  me  to  do? 

Lincoln:  And  this  means  Cynthia's  freedom  and  something  to 
make  glad  the  heart  of  your  little  blue-eyed,  golden-haired  daughter, 
named  Anne? 

Rutledge:     Yes,  Mr.  Lincoln,  yes! 

Lincoln  (turning  to  Hanks  and  Johnston)  :  And,  now,  boys  of 
the  settlements  and  the  prairies,  do  you  remember  how,  when  Hanks  here 
and  I  were  splitting  rails  in  the  Sangamon  bottoms,  we  brought  down  a  big 
Spanish  oak  that  fell  on  Jack  Armstrong  and  well  nigh  killed  him  as  it 
slowly  settled  upon  him  and  pressed  him  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  soft 
muck,  and  how  you,  Hanks,  and  you,  Johnston,  sprang  to  me,  and  how  we 
bent  our  backs  and  popped  our  eyes  and  whip-corded  the  veins  in  our  faces 
and  fiddle-stringed  the  nerves  and  muscles  in  our  necks  and  arms  and  legs, 
and  held  and  raised  the  great  tree  until  Jack  could  crawl  to  safety?  Do 
you  remember  that?  I  see  by  your  faces,  boys,  that  you  remember.  So 
now,  Mr.  Rutledge,  in  the  deep  and  shameful  muck  of  our  national  econom- 
ics, a  great,  brutal,  Spanish  tyrant  has  fallen  across  human  rights  and  the 
heart  of  your  little  Anne.  If  you'll  lead  the  way  and  show  us  Cynthia  and 
this  damned  Spaniard,  we'll  Drake  and  Hawkins  him  and  sink  his  Armada 
of  thieving,  cruel  possession  in  the  muddy  tide  of  the  Father  of  Waters. 

Rutledge  quickly  leads  the  way,  followed  by  Fairfax,  Lincoln, 
Hanks,  and  Johnston,  all  stripping  off  their  coats. 


Scene  VII. 
THE  CRISIS 

LINCOLN  in  the  White  House  in  1861  while  the  attack  on  Fort  Sump- 
ter  by  the  Confederates  is  imminent.  The  place  is  the  President's  room. 
His  private  secretary,  Mr.  John  Hay,  is  present,  as  well  as  Mr.  Seward 
and  Mr.  Stanton  of  his  official  cabinet.  Piles  of  telegrams,  letters  and 
papers  cover  the  library  table  and  an  atmosphere  of  tenseness  pervades. 

Lincoln:  This  suspense  about  Fort  Sumpter  and  Major  Anderson 
is  wearing  on  backwoods  nerves  and  prairie  sensibilities. 

Seward:  I  feel  as  if  the  weight  of  the  universe  were  bearing  down 
upon  me.  This  weight  has  borne  down  remorselessly  upon  my  shoulders 
since  the  inauguration  nearly  a  month  ago.  But  I  bear  up.  Are  we  sure 
that  we  are  on  the  right  road?  Are  we  drifting?  Are  there  a  keen  in- 
sight and  a  set  purpose  held  in  reserve  by  a  lawful  and  constitutional  power 
that  can  meet  and  handle  things  now  transpiring  or  trembling  on  the  edge 
of  a  crisis?  I  have  my  lines  out  among  the  politicians,  and  my  agencies 
for  securing  needful  data  are  well  placed.  Thus  I  have  been  able  to  con- 
ceive of  and  formulate  a  policy.  Thus  I  prepared  and  submitted  my 
thoughts  for  the  President's  consideration.  England  and  France  must  be 
dealt  with,  and  Canada,  Mexico  and  Central  America  must  be  roused  to  a 
spirit  of  independence  from  European  domination.  Sumpter  must  be 
evacuated.  We  must  maintain  every  fort  and  national  possession  in  the 
South.  Let  the  tide  of  events  carry  along  the  twin  issues  of  unionism  and 
slavery-  Let  us  divert  the  public  mind  into  forgetfulness  and  resultant 
patriotism. 

Lincoln  (musing):  Give  up  Fort  Sumpter,  but  maintain  every 
fort  and  national  possession  in  the  South,  thus  going  out  to  swim,  hanging 
our  clothes  on  a  hickory  limb  and  not  going  near  the  water !  Buy  a  silver 
waiter,  and  upon  it  present  to  Jefferson  Davis  at  Montgomery  two  power- 
ful European  allies !  Divert  the  people  by  putting  European  and  Spanish 
American  sand  in  their  mouths!  Why  (now  turning  to  Seward),  Mr. 
Secretary,  out  in  our  country,  Lem  Stevens  used  to  divert  his  horse  from 
balking  by  putting  sand  in  his  mouth,  and  the  old  nag  became  a  progress- 
ive sand-glutton.  Lem  got  to  the  point  where  the  horse-demand  for  sand- 
diversion  was  so  great,  out  there  in  the  prairies  where  sand  was  scarce, 
that  he  had  to  keep  a  wagon  full  of  sand,  and  then  he  had  to  walk  and  get 
his  neighbors  to  do  his  hauling. 

34 


Seward:  I  asked  if  we  were  not  drifting.  We  may  drift  even 
among  reminiscences  of  balking  horses  and  frontier  life. 

Lincoln:  Mr.  Secretary,  we  may  drift,  but  if  we  do,  we  must  pull 
up  the  two  biggest  stakes  of  principle  that  were  ever  driven  through  the 
centre  of  the  earth  and  double-clinched  at  the  points  where  they  came  out 
in  the  eastern  hemisphere.  These  earth-piercing  stakes,  to  which  we  are 
chained  by  unbreakable  links,  are  these:  First,  the  Union  must  be  fear- 
lessly maintained ;  and,  second,  the  threat  of  disunion  must  not  soften  us 
to  allow  slavery  to  go  beyond  its  present  bounds  into  the  Territories  of 
this  Nation,  where  our  civilization  is  to  expand  and  develop.  Giving  up 
this  country's  great  fort  will  weaken  both  of  these  stakes  to  which  we  are 
tied.  Mr.  Secretary,  I  believe  that  I  am  justified  in  saying  that  Mr.  Jeffer- 
son Davis,  Mr.  Robert  Toombs  and  Mr.  William  L.  Yancey  would  almost 
die  of  subtropical  joy,  if  they  should  hear  that  Abraham  Lincoln  had  be- 
gun to  commence  an  embroilment  with  England  and  France.  By  the  ties 
of  blood,  race  and  democratic  development,  England  is  and  always  must 
be  our  ally.  By  the  ties  of  comradeship  and  chivalric  sacrifice,  France  is 
bound  to  us.  I  am  speaking  of  that  genuine  England  and  that  genuine 
France  that  lie  beneath  the  painted  surface  of  official  expediency.  Mr. 
Secretary,  I  have  mentally  and  physically  transfused  hither  and  yon  in  this 
country  in  my  day  and  time,  and  I  humbly  think  that  I  appreciate  its 
moods  and  ways.  I  love  the  Union,  and  I  hate  disunion.  I  hate  slavery, 
without  always  being  forced  into  hatred  of  the  slave-owner.  Right  makes 
might,  and  the  patient  poise  of  a  consciousness  of  right  must  not  be  mis- 
taken for  drifting.  If  calamities  overtake  us,  the  people  are  to  blame  for 
picking  out  a  prairie  lawyer  for  President,  or  our  Constitution  is  to  blame 
for  not  providing  two  or  more  Presidents  at  the  same  time. 

Stanton  (looking  at  his  watch) :  Mr.  President,  it  is  after  the  hour 
when  you  were  to  receive  visitors  from  Illinois.  They  are  possibly  wait- 
ing. And  following  these  visitors,  the  Emancipation  Committee  of  the 
Gideon  League  is  to  meet  you. 

Lincoln:  Let  the  visitors  from  Illinois,  if  they  are  waiting,  meet 
me  here,  and  let  the  committee  from  the  Gideon  League,  when  they  come, 
also  meet  me  in  this  room.  Mr.  Hay  (to  the  Private  Secretary),  please  ar- 
range this. 

Hay,  the  Private  Secretary,  retires,  and  Lincoln  takes  a  letter 
from  his  pocket  and  prepares  to  read  it  to  Seward  and  Stanton. 

Lincoln  (continuing) :  I  beg  you  to  listen  to  the  reading  of  this 
letter.  It  is  from  an  old  friend  of  mine  in  Louisiana,  whom  I  met  once 
when  I  was  being  transfused  along  the  big  Mississippi  vein  of  our  body 


35 


politic.  She  is  the  Madame  Roland  of  the  South.  The  letter  is  dated  on 
the  day  of  my  inauguration  and  was  written  at  Marne  Chateau,  Louisiana. 
With  your  permission  I  shall  read  it  (reading) : 

Hon.  Abraham  Lincoln, 
Executive  Mansion, 
Washington, 

District  of  Columbia. 

My  dear  Mr.  Lincoln: 

In  the  long-ago,  in  my  drawing  room,  I  said  to  you  that,  in  the  design  of  God,  time 
was  an  element  of  truth,  and  that  we  should  not  demand  from  a  single  day  the  definite 
truth. 

Much  time  has  passed  and  much  water  in  the  Great  Iiiver  has  run  to  the  sea  since 
then.  The  flight  of  time  means  nothing,  as  an  element  of  truth,  unless  it  lead  on  to 
some  fateful  day  when  we  prove  our  timid,  groping  faith  by  our  works. 

Today  I  have  signed,  sealed  and  delivered  my  deed  of  manumission  and  freedom 
to  all  the  slaves  upon  my  estate.  I  recognize  the  problems  that  confront  them  in  our 
social  order,  and  so  I  have  made  such  arrangements  as  are  possible  to  retain  them  upon 
the  equitable  basis  of  a  wage-system.     But  I  do  not  abridge  their  freedom. 

My  plans  for  the  near  future  are  to  visit  my  mother's  people  on  the  Cape  Fear  in 
Carolina,  and  later  I  shall  be  a  guest  at  the  Fairfax  home  in  Virginia. 

God  keep  our  great  country  off  the  rocks,  and  grant  that  it  is  only  the  sound  of  the 
wave  and  the  flapping  of  a  sail  that  affright  us! 

Most  respectfully  and  sincerely  yours, 

MARY  DEVREAUX  DUCHESNE. 

Seward:     A  very  noble  deed. 

Stanton:     A  very  noble  woman. 

Lincoln:  It's  a  far  cry  back  to  the  time  when  a  rough,  uncouth 
frontiersman  drifted  in  a  flatboat  down  the  Sangamon,  the  Illinois  and  the 
Mississippi,  and,  rubbing  an  Aladdin's  lamp,  found  himself  in  a  circle  of 
splendor,  culture,  kindness  and  hospitality  unsurpassed  in  any  civiliza- 
tion on  this  earth.    Yes,  she  is  a  very  wonderful  and  noble  woman. 

Hay  quickly  returns  and  is  laughing  as  he  enters.  With  him  is  an 
old  man,  Azariah  Hicks,  of  Illinois,  one  of  Lincoln's  old-time  friends. 
HlCKS  hobbles  along,  and  LINCOLN,  recognizing  him,  cordially  extends  his 
hand  in  greeting. 

Hay:  Mr.  President,  your  old  friends,  Mr.  Hicks  and  Mrs.  Hicks, 
of  Illinois,  were  waiting.  Mrs.  Hicks  is  held  back  for  a  moment  by  some 
Illinois  people  in  the  hall  below. 

Lincoln:  And  dear  Azariah  Hicks  from  the  flowing  banks  of  the 
Sangamon !  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  I  want  you  to  sit  right  down  here  in  a 
chair  that's  a  little  more  comfortable  than  the  stump  you  sat  on  that  day 
watching  Hanks  and  me  running  a  race  at  rail-splitting. 

Hicks  (sitting  down):  Yes,  Abe — I  mean  Mr.  President — them 
days  wuz  good  ole  days,  but  they  be  gone  an'  the  grasshopper  is  gittin'  ter 
be  a  burden. 

Lincoln:  Bless  my  soul,  Azariah,  I  remember  when  you  married 
Martha  Hawkins.    She's  with  you  today  and  well  ? 


Hicks:  Yes,  she's  with  me.  She'll  be  in  here  shortly.  But — poor 
woman! — she  ain't  well.  She  looks  all  right,  but  somethin's  the  matter 
with  her  head  so  that  her  mind  ain't  right.  She  fergits  names  of  people 
an'  things  an'  places  an'  happenin's.  This  kind  o'  hangs  her  up  in  her 
conversation.  I  fergits  the  name  of  the  ailment  of  the  head  that  they  call 
it — lemme  see — it's  called  som'n'  or  other — it'll  come  to  me  soon — oh 
pshaw ! — 

Hay:     Aphasia? 

Hicks:  Yes!  yes!  that's  it — aphasia — that's  what  Martha's  got. 
She  fergits  an'  you  have  to  help  her  along. 

Mrs.  Hicks,  a  strong  and  vigorous  old  lady,  enters  briskly  and  with 
cordial  enthusiasm.     LINCOLN  advances  to  meet  her. 

Lincoln:  Why,  Martha  Hawkins  Hicks!  I  am  truly  glad  to  see 
you. 

Mrs.  Hicks:  An'  Abe — I'm  goin'  ter  drop  that  President  right  here 
an'  now — the  Lord  knows  you  do  my  ole  prairie-eyes  good.  You  remem- 
ber Zack  Caverly,  that  we  called  Socrates,  an'  Elihu  Gest  an'  Ebinezer 
James  an'  Lem  Stevens  an'  Tom  Melendy  an'  Jim  Ferris  an'  Phil  Sawyer 
an'  Ike  Dixon  an'  Hank  Cutler  an'  Ezry  Sparr  an'  Andy  Scott  an'  Luke 
Henry  an'  Plate  Wagner  an'  Squire  Higgins  an'  all  them  prank-players 
down  at  Clary's  Grove  an' — 

Lincoln:  Yes,  Martha.  I  remember  and  love  them  all.  Ah,  I'd 
like  to  go  back  to  New  Salem  and  see  the  blue  sky  bending  down  over  the 
waving,  golden  wheat  on  the  prairie. 

Mrs.  Hicks:  An'  now,  Abe,  when  you  talk  'bout  somethin'  blue  an' 
somethin'  golden,  I  gits  out  my  pocket  han'kerchief  (getting  it  out  and 
touching  her  eyes)  an'  I  asks  of  you  if  you  remember  the  blue  eyes  an'  gold- 
en hair  of  poor,  dear,  little,  dead  Anne  Rutledge  whose  grave  I  keeps 
green  ? 

Lincoln  (covering  his  brow  and  eyes  with  his  hand):  Yes,  dear 
woman,  I  remember !  I  remember !  I  never  can  be  reconciled  to  have  the 
snow  and  rain  and  storms  beat  upon  her  grave.  May  spring  and  summer 
always  bring  to  that  grave  the  sweetest  flowers  of  the  prairie ! 

Hicks:  An'  Abe — I'll  drop  the  President  too,  if  you'll  let  me — you 
remember  that  hell-roarin'  feller  that  use'  ter  hold  revivals  an'  distracted 
meetin's — oh,  what's  his  name? — I  can't  seem  ter  git  it  on  my  tongue 
right  now — lemme  see — er — 

Mrs.  Hicks:     Reverend  Peter  Cartwright? 

Hicks:     Yes,  that's  it,  Cartwright. 

Lincoln:     I  remember  him  very  well. 

Hicks:  Well,  you  mind  his  meetin'  house  almost  got  burnt  down — 
the  meetin'  house  over  there  at — at  that  place — that  place  called — er, 
lemme  see — at — 

Mrs.  Hicks:     Mount  Carmell? 

Hicks:     Yes,  that's  the  place. 

37 


Lincoln  (laughing) :  Yes,  I  remember  the  time  and  the  place.  I 
was  there.  Denton  Offutt  was  on  the  shady  side  of  the  meeting  house. 
Denton  was  careless  in  lighting  his  pipe.  The  dry  straw  and  leaves  quick- 
ly caught  fire  and  carried  the  flames  right  under  the  wooden  church,  and, 
away  back  where  nobody  could  reach  it,  the  blaze  was  burning  the  sills 
and  the  floor.  The  whole  thing  looked  like  it  was  gone.  It  was  a  half- 
mile  to  water.  Offutt  was  scared,  because  he  had  started  the  fire  and  saw 
the  law  of  damages  coming  after  him.  Jack  Armstrong  pulled  off  his  coat, 
and,  dragging  it  after  him,  squeezed  under  the  building  and  squirmed  his 
way  toward  the  fire.  Offutt  kneeled  on  the  ground,  put  his  eyes  down, 
looked  under  the  church  and  sang  out :  "That's  right,  Jack,  flap  it  out  with 
your  coat,  and  I'll  give  you  the  best  suit  of  clothes,  the  best  overcoat  and 
the  best  hat  in  my  store."  Jack  worked  hard,  the  fire  grew  less  and  Offutt 
yelled :  "Go  after  it,  Jack,  and  kill  it  dead  and  I'll  give  you  the  best  over- 
coat in  my  stock."  Jack  won,  the  fire  faded  away  and  everything  seemed 
safe.  Offutt  stood  up  and  rubbed  the  dirt  off  his  knees  and  holloed :  "Come 
on  out,  Jack,  the  hat's  yours." 

Hicks:  Them  wuz  good  ole  days.  An'  do  you  remember,  Abe, 
about  the  time  when  you  beat  'em  out  on  their  scheme  to  shut  yo'  mouth 
'bout  that  big  man  that  you  wuz  readin'  so  much  about  then — that  big  man 
named — named — oh  hell ! — named — 

Mrs.  Hicks:     Patrick  Henry? 

Hicks:     Yes,  by  gum!    Patrick  Henry. 

Lincoln:     Hicks,  you  are  a  darned  poor  diagnostician. 

Hicks:     How's  that? 

Lincoln:     I  say  Mrs.  Hicks  is  much  better. 

Hicks:     Yes,  but  we  have  to  help  her  powerful. 

Lincoln:     Help  her  all  you  can,  Hicks. 

Hicks:  An'  Abe,  do  you  mind  that  horse-trader  over  at  Saul's 
Prairie  who  got  converted  an'  took  ter  pray  in'  in  public? 

Lincoln:     What  was  his  name? 

Hicks  (impatiently) :     Now,  never  mind  his  name! 

Mrs.  Hicks:     Luke  Stone? 

Hicks:  I  said  never  mind  his  name!  but  that  was  his  name — Luke 
Stone.  Well,  arter  he  got  converted  an'  got  mighty  easy  an'  expert  at 
prayin'  in  public,  he  took  a  round  o'  horse-tradin'  fer  a  week.  Then  he 
showed  up  on  Sunday  at  Mount  Carmell  church  an'  Parson  Cartwright 
called  on  him  to  pray  in  public.  He  had  traded  a  spavined  roan  to  Ezry 
Sparr  on  the  Wednesday  before,  an'  there  wuz  Ezry  in  the  congregation  on 
the  left.  He  had  traded  a  gingered  bay  to  Sol  Carter  on  the  Friday  before, 
an'  there  wuz  Sol  in  the  congregation  on  the  right.  Luke  never  saw  Ezry 
nor  Sol  till  he  got  along  in  his  prayer.  Luke  started  out  by  clearin'  his 
throat  an'  coughin'  behind  his  hand  an'  stretchin'  his  neck  an'  liftin'  up 
his  voice,  an'  then  he  said — he  said — lemme  see — he  said — 


Mrs.  Hicks:  Abe,  I'll  tell  you  exactly  what  he  said.  I  remember 
it  well. 

Lincoln  (laughing) :  No,  let  me  tell  what  his  prayer  was  and  how 
he  made  it.  I  heard  it  myself.  He  began  with  fulsome  and  flattering  com- 
pliments to  the  Deity  and  shaded  away  into  a  petition  for  the  most  exalted 
morality,  righteousness  and  holiness  in  the  hearts  and  lives  of  those  pres- 
ent. This  is  about  the  way  the  last  part  of  his  prayer  went :  "Oh  Lord,  in 
all  our  walk  and  conversation  in  thy  holy  and  blessed  Zion,  help  us  to  do 
absolutely  right,  and,  furthermore,  oh  Lord  (catching  sight  of  Ezry  out 
of  the  tail  of  his  left  eye),  help  us  to  do  about  right,  and  then,  oh  Lord 
(seeing  Sol  out  of  the  corner  of  his  right  eye),  help  us  to  do  as  near  right 
as  the  circumstances  and  surroundings  will  permit." 

Hay:  Mr.  President,  the  Emancipation  Committee  of  the  Gideon 
League  is  waiting. 

Lincoln:  Very  well,  Hay,  they  may  come  right  in  here,  and  (turn- 
ing to  Mr.  Hicks  and  Mrs.  Hicks)  you  dear  people  will  excuse  me  now,  I 
know,  and  see  me  again  before  you  go  back  to  the  prairies. 

Mr.  Hicks  and  Mrs.  Hicks  retire  by  a  side  door  while  the  Emanci- 
pation Committee  of  the  Gideon  League  files  in.  The  chairman  or  spokes- 
man is  unctuous  and  armed  with  an  immense  manuscript,  which  is  his  ad- 
dress to  the  President. 

Lincoln:     Mr.  Chairman  and  gentlemen,  you  are  welcome. 

Chairman  (coming  absurdly  close  and  standing  under  the  very  nose 
of  Lincoln,  with  his  immense  manuscript  touching  the  buttons  on  the 
President's  vest,  he  reads  and  thunders  forth  his  written  address) :  "Mr. 
President,  it  devolves  upon  this  Emancipation  Committee  of  the  Gideon 
League,  speaking  through  me,  the  duly  and  truly  authorized  and  empow- 
ered Chairman  of  said  Committee,  to  express  to  you  sentiments  and  opin- 
ions that  are  kindly,  sensible,  reasonable,  sober,  charitable,  earnest,  insis- 
tent, irresistible,  fixed,  irrefragable,  unchangeable,  uncompromising,  burn- 
ing— " 

Lincoln:  As  we  used  to  say  in  the  game  of  hide-the-thimble,  you 
are  now  getting  warm. 

Chairman:  To  resume,  "Mr.  President,  it  devolves  upon  this 
Emancipation  Committee  of  the  Gideon  League,  speaking  through  me,  the 
duly  and  truly  authorized  and  empowered  Chairman  of  said  Committee, 
to  express  to  you  sentiments  and  opinions  that  are" — let  me  see — yes — 
"burning  and  that  relate  to  something  that  relates  to  us  all  in  all  the  rela- 
tionships of  the  body  politic ;  something  that  is  in  the  midst  of  the  central 
inwardness  of  the  life  of  this  Nation;  something  that  weaves  itself  into 
the  warp  and  woof  of  our  political  and  economic  existence ;  something  that 
lifts  its  voice  of  distress  in  the  modern  world;  something  that  clanks  its 
chains  in  our  market-places;  (Lincoln  deftly  peeping  at  the  manuscript 
held  so  close  to  him)  something  that  crimsons  the  cheek  of  American  civil- 
ization with  the  blush  of  shame  and — " 


Lincoln:     Do  you  eventually  name  this  something? 

Chairman:  Yes,  Mr.  President,  of  necessity,  the  name  of  this 
something  is  deferred  and  climactic. 

Lincoln:  Mr.  Chairman,  the  name  of  this  something  is  African 
slavery. 

Chairman:  Mr.  President,  we  are  astounded  at  your  penetrating 
perspicacity. 

Lincoln:  I  peeped  and  found,  it  at  the  top  of  your  forty-second 
page.    And  what,  gentlemen,  is  the  petition  of  your  discourse  ? 

Chairman:  As  you  have  so  aptly  traversed  and  epitomized  the 
first  forty-two  pages  of  our  appeal,  Mr.  President,  this  Committee,  acting 
through  me,  its  duly  appointed  and  lawfully  empowered  Chairman,  will 
abridge  our  conference  and  come  at  once  to  the  last  twenty  pages  contain- 
ing the  perorational  summary  of  our  prayers. 

Lincoln:     Twenty  pages?    If  so,  proceed. 

Chairman  (resuming) :  "Wherefore,  and  in  view  of  each  and  every 
part,  parcel,  portion  and  premises  herein  and  above  set  forth  and  enume- 
rated, we,  the  Committee,  speaking  through  said  duly  appointed  and  legally 
authorized  Chairman,  representing  the  sentiments,  convictions,  resolu- 
tions and  official  utterances  of  the  Gideon  League,  do  seriously,  solemnly 
and  earnestly  urge  upon  the  President  of  the  United  States  of  America 
that  he  do  now  and  here,  without  equivocation,  delay  or  hesitation — " 

Lincoln:  Rub  Aladdin's  lamp  and  wave  a  fairy's  wand  and  live 
happily  ever  after? 

Chairman:  No,  Mr.  President,  the  closing  lines  of  my  appeal  so 
aptly  express  the  gist  and  substance  of  our  address  that,  having  read  them, 
I  shall  close.  They  are  as  follows :  "And  in  conclusion,  the  Gideon  League, 
in  regularly  and  duly  constituted  convention  assembled,  speaking  through 
its  Committee  and  the  lawfully  empowered  Chairman  thereof,  does  here 
and  now  demand  of  the  Chief  Executive  of  the  United  States  of  America 
that  he  shall  forthwith  and  unconditionally  draw  forth  the  sword  of  the 
Lord  and  of  Gideon,  and,  smiting  mightily  therewith  on  hip  and  thigh, 
proclaim  and  publish  the  absolute  freedom  of  every  slave  within  our  bor- 
ders and  immediately  convene  Congress  to  assist  in  carrying  out  this 
sacred  policy." 

Lincoln:     Mr.  Chairman,  how  tall  are  you? 

Chairman:  Why,  Mr.  President,  I — I —  do  not  quite  understand — 
I — I  am  about  five  feet  ten. 

Lincoln:  When  I  was  fifteen  years  old,  I  was  tall  enough  to  lick 
salt  off  the  top  of  your  head. 

Chairman:  Well,  Mr.  President,  with  your — with  your  permission, 
I  shall  leave  the  copy  of  this  address  with  you  and  retire  with  my  duly  con- 
stituted Committee. 

Lincoln:     Yes,  Mr.  Chairman,  after  you  have  heard  and  absorbed 

40 


the  report  or  appeal  of  the  President  of  the  United  States,  made  to  you  and 
to  your  Committee  and  to  your  Gideon  League  and  to  all  who  run  on  eager 
feet.  Once  upon  a  time  a  good  and  great  lady,  quoting  a  brilliant  philos- 
opher, said  this  to  me :  "In  the  design  of  God,  time  appears  an  element  of 
truth ;  yet  to  demand  from  a  single  day  the  definite  truth,  is  to  ask  of  Na- 
ture more  than  she  can  afford.  Impatience  creates  illusions  and  ruins  in 
the  place  of  truth ;  deceptions  are  but  truths  plucked  ere  they  are  ripe." 
Gentlemen,  the  man  does  not  live  in  these  United  States  who  wishes  more 
than  I  do  for  an  Aladdin's  lamp  in  the  midst  of  these  things.  But  we 
must  not  confound  our  antipathies  with  our  immediate  duties.  Slavery 
came  to  and  found  lodgment  in  this  country  by  the  acts  of  men,  communi- 
ties and  governments  stretching  from  Plymouth  Rock  to  the  Rio  Grande. 
It  was  recognized  by  statute  in  Massachusetts  in  1641.  It  was  thus  recog- 
nized in  Connecticut  in  1650.  It  was  likewise  recognized  in  Virginia  in 
1661.  Massachusetts  and  Connecticut,  in  point  of  time,  led  all  the  other 
colonies  in  formal,  statutory  recognition  of  the  thrice-cursed  institution. 
It  was  common  to  all  the  colonies  and  original  states.  It  is  the  left-over 
evil  of  days  when  men  spoke  of  things  institutional  on  this  side  of  the  At- 
lantic as  "plantations."  It  is  a  plantation-evil  carried  along  and  crystal- 
lized into  the  sphinx-riddle  of  a  commonwealth.  It  was  a  dying  thing 
throughout  this  Nation,  and  Eli  Whitney's  cotton  gin  brought  it  back  to 
life  and  made  drunk  with  dreams  of  power  and  empire  the  men  whose 
blood  and  race  were  the  same  as  yours  and  mine.  Eli  Whitney  lightened 
the  labors  of  millions  of  cotton-seeding  fingers,  but  he  fastened  millions 
of  shackles  with  rivets  of  unbreakable  steel.  Some  philosopher  some- 
where says  that  there  is  no  absolute  good  and  no  absolute  evil — all  things 
are  relative.  I  pray  God  that  this  cotton  gin  be  not  an  engine  of  war !  I 
like  to  handle  all  thoughts  by  bounding  them  north  and  bounding  them 
south  and  bounding  them  east  and  bounding  them  west.  I  abominate  slav- 
ery !  I  was  born  on  the  fringe  of  the  South  of  stock  out  of  New  England 
transfused  into  and  through  Virginia.  I  hate  slavery,  but  I  do  not  hate 
the  slave-owner.  This  Union  cannot  always  remain  half  slave  and  half 
free,  and  this  Union  is  going  to  remain  unbroken  to  play  its  part  in  the 
future  of  this  old  world  of  ours.  You  appeal  to  me  to  decree  the  abolish- 
ment of  slavery.  That  I  cannot  do.  My  antipathies  do  not  confer  powers 
upon  me.  Gentlemen,  read  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States  and  read 
the  sad,  sombre,  part  of  it,  as  well  as  the  parts  that  carry  hope  and  promise 
to  mankind.  Read  therein  these  three  things :  First,  the  distressing  recog- 
nition of  slavery  where  it  now  exists;  second,  the  power  of  Congress  to 
keep  it  out  of  the  Territories;  and,  third,  the  right  and  duty  of  the  Gov- 
ernment of  the  Union  to  preserve  its  own  existence.  And  then,  gentlemen, 
read  everywhere  in  history  the  great  truth  that  a  confined,  circumscribed, 
non-expanding  man  dies,  and  a  confined,  circumscribed,  non-expanding 
institution  also  dies.    Your  impatience  tells  me  that  your  hearts  are  sound. 


But  that  impatience,  transferred  to  the  President  of  the  United  States, 
would  destroy  this  Union.    This  Union  shall  remain ! 

Hay:  Mr.  President,  the  Peace  Committee  from  the  Submission 
League  is  waiting,  and  their  hour  of  appointment  has  long  passed.  May 
I  have  your  permission  to  ask  the  Emancipation  Committee  of  the  Gideon 
League  to  retire  ? 

This  committee  begins  retiring. 

Lincoln:  Goodbye,  gentlemen,  and  God  be  with  us  all  while  we 
watch  and  wait ! 

The  Peace  Committee  of  the  Submission  League  enters. 

Chairman:     Mr.  President,  we  beg  your  pardon — 

Lincoln:  I  beg  your  pardon  for  keeping  you  so  long.  On  yester- 
day I  received  a  copy  of  your  memorial  to  the  President,  urging  something 
closely  akin  to  peace  at  any  price.  I  read  it  carefully.  As  I  understand  it, 
you  are  here  today  to  urge  the  points  of  that  memorial. 

Chairman:  We  hope  and  believe  that  the  memorial  sufficiently 
urges  and  clarifies  its  own  points.  We  are  here  only  for  some  answering 
expression  from  you  as  the  Chief  Executive,  and  we  wish  to  say  one  thing 
more  before  we  receive  your  answer.  This,  Mr.  President,  is  what  our 
great  organization  says :  It  is  not  a  nation  or  a  civilization  that  is  on  trial 
at  this  hour  when  men  are  burnishing  their  arms  and  buckling  on  their 
armor.  It  is  the  Golden  Rule  that  is  on  trial!  Jesus  of  Nazareth  said: 
"Whatsoever  ye  would  that  men  should  do  to  you,  do  ye  even  so  to  them." 
He  made  no  exceptions;  he  added  no  qualifications;  he  left  his  followers 
to  close  their  eyes  and  follow  that  rule.  Standing  upon  this  foundation, 
Mr.  President,  and  asking  that  this  Golden  Rule  may  influence  you  in  mak- 
ing some  statement  that  will  insure  and  make  certain  the  cause  of  blessed 
peace,  we  are  here  to  listen  respectfully  to  your  answer. 

Lincoln:  Mr.  Chairman  and  gentlemen  of  the  Peace  Committee 
of  the  Submission  League,  the  Union  of  these  States  is  something  sacred, 
and  upon  it  depends  the  weal  of  all  mankind  in  times  to  come.  Its  struc- 
ture is  a  holy  temple.  To  break  or  remove  the  parts  of  this  structure  is  to 
despoil  this  temple.  Once,  as  Matthew,  Mark,  Luke  and  John  tell  us,  this 
Jesus  of  Nazareth  made  unto  himself  a  whip  of  cords  and  therewith  drove 
forth  the  despoilers  of  his  Father's  temple.  While  he  made  the  whip  of 
cords  and  lashed  the  despoilers,  perhaps  the  words  of  his  Golden  Rule 
came  trooping  across  his  mind  and  memory.  We  only  have  the  record  of 
his  enunciation  of  this  rule  and  the  record  of  his  scourging  of  the  despoil- 
ers of  the  temple.  But  to  these  two  seeming  antagonisms,  may  we  not  add 
something  of  righteousness  that  the  Nazarene  might  approve  and  some- 
thing of  exactness  that  Euclid  might  accept?  Let  us  see.  Inasmuch  as 
no  righteous  man  could  object  to  being  himself  scourged  forth,  if  he,  sup- 
posedly for  the  moment,  were  a  despoiler  of  the  temple ;  and  inasmuch  as 
this  mental  attitude  of  a  righteous  man  actually  creates  in  him  a  wish  to 

42 


be  himself  scourged  forth;  therefore  the  terms  of  the  Golden  Rule  are 
literally  complied  with  when  a  righteous  man  makes  his  whip  of  cords 
and  drives  out  despoilers.  In  other  words,  a  righteous  scourger  scourges 
because,  animated  by  his  righteousness,  he  would  wish  to  be  scourged  if 
he  were  doing  the  thing  that  the  scourged  is  doing.  Doing  unto  others 
what  you  would  have  them  do  unto  you  must  embrace  all  necessary  acts 
towards  others  that  prevent  others  from  doing  a  wrong  that  you  yourself 
would  feel  you  ought  to  be  prevented  from  committing.  Thus  the  scheme 
of  the  Golden  Rule  is  carried  out.  So,  gentlemen,  if  Mr.  Toombs  of 
Georgia,  or  Mr.  Davis  of  Mississippi,  or  Mr.  Yancey  of  Alabama,  enters 
our  temple  and  actually  begins  to  despoil  it,  we  shall  say  to  him :  "Mr.  De- 
spoiler,  if  we  could  suppose  ourselves  doing  what  you  are  doing,  we,  in  an 
impulse  of  Golden-Rule  righteousness,  would  want  somebody  (you,  if  you 
would!)  to  stop  us,  if  need  be,  with  a  scourge.  So  we  are  going  to  do  to 
you  what  we  would  wish  you,  or  somebody  else,  to  do  to  us  in  these  circum- 
stances. Therefore,  Mr.  Despoiler,  we  are  practicing  the  Golden  Rule  on 
you."  If  ever  the  international  lion  and  lamb  lie  down  together — and 
some  day  they  will ! — the  principle  of  a  righteous,  co-operative  determina- 
tion of  what  is  right  must  lie  at  the  bottom  of  the  dispensation,  and,  sus- 
taining it  always,  there  must  be  a  co-operative  whip  made  of  cords,  repre- 
senting all  the  enlightened  nations  of  the  world. 

The  committee  retires. 

Hay:  A  delegation  that  shows  great  impatience  is  waiting  to  see 
you,  Mr.  President,  and  their  business  seems  urgent. 

Lincoln:  Hay,  please  see  that  the  committees  from  the  Gideon 
League  and  the  Submission  League  don't  fall  afoul  of  one  another  and  do 
a  tomcat  and  dove  act  in  the  White  House  grounds.  Also  find  out  if  the 
impatient  delegation  that  you  mention  bears  the  trifling  tidings  of  the 
attack  on  Fort  Sumpter  or  the  transcendent  tidings  of  a  battle  to  the 
death  over  the  postmastership  at  Pollyville,  Pinfeather  County,  Kansas. 


Scene  VIII. 
THE  COMMANDER 

Lincoln  is  in  the  library  of  the  White  House  in  April,  1863.  The 
Army  of  the  Potomac,  now  under  General  Hooker,  has  scarcely  recovered 
from  the  crushing  blow  delivered  by  the  Army  of  Northern  Virginia,  under 
General  Lee,  at  Fredericksburg.  The  Federal  and  Confederate  armies  are 
moving  for  place  and  position  in  the  next  great  battle.  The  cause  of  the 
Union  hangs  in  a  delicate  balance.  Hay  is  now  a  colonel  and  is  in  uniform. 
Lincoln  is  alone  with  Hay  and  another  army  officer.  The  meeting  is  one 
where  an  atmosphere  of  tense  secrecy  and  painful  solicitude  prevails. 

Lincoln:     And  Hooker  says  that  his  army  is  the  finest  on  the  planet. 

43 


He  also  says  that  we  ought  to  have  a  dictator  in  Washington.  Successful 
generals  are  the  very  best  raw  materials  from  which  dictators  are  made. 
If  Hooker  will  only  hand  the  people  of  the  Union  a  victory,  I  will  risk  the 
dictatorship.  These  two  great  armies  are  stalking  one  another  and  the 
issue  is  on  the  knees — of — of — 

Hay:     The  gods? 

Lincoln:     No;  God!  and  so  we  bear  up  and  take  heart. 

Officer:  Mr.  President,  the  two  armies,  as  you  say,  are  now  stalk- 
ing one  another.  The  situation  is  tense.  These  dispatches  (pointing  to 
them)  show  how  important  it  is  to  guard  against  the  slightest  word  of  in- 
formation passing  from  our  lines  to  the  enemy.  The  fate  of  our  cause  may 
be  decided  by  only  one  sentence  from  our  military  papers,  or  the  tracing 
of  one  blind  road  on  our  maps,  getting  to  the  hundreds  of  Confederate  spies 
that  dog  our  movements  and  infest  our  camps. 

Lincoln:  Is  this  the  preliminary  of  asking  me  to  shoot  or  hang 
somebody  at  sunrise?  On  these  April  mornings  the  sunrise  is  too  beauti- 
ful to  be  used  for  the  purpose  of  shooting  or  hanging  somebody. 

Officer:  No,  Mr.  President,  things  are  too  critical  to  wait  for  the 
rising  of  the  sun,  after  the  drum-head  court  delivers  its  decree.  We  move 
quickly,  and,  if  a  bloodstain  marks  a  mistake  here  and  there,  we  forget  it 
and  remember  only  that  Mars  does  not  weigh  out  his  measures  in  golden 
scales.  Our  spies  ply  the  Confederate  lines  and  theirs  ply  ours.  A  battle 
of  wits  precedes  the  physical  struggle  that  is  imminent.  Few,  if  any,  of 
the  Confederate  spies  come  to  your  attention  as  Commander-in-Chief  of 
the  Army.  But,  Mr.  President,  by  some  strange  influence  that  I  do  not 
understand  and  that  is  only  known  to  a  high  commanding  officer  now  in 
the  field,  a  case  of  a  Confederate  spy  is  ready  and  waiting  for  your  con- 
sideration. The  captured  spy  is  to  come  before  you.  It  is  an  extraordi- 
nary proceeding.  Orders  from  above  control  me.  Some  unseen  influence 
secured  this  hearing  for  this  boy. 

Lincoln:     Is  he  a  boy? 

Officer:  Now,  Mr.  President,  let  me  beg  of  you,  sir,  to  look  at  his 
case  as  if  he  were  a  bearded  man.  He  is  guilty !  thrice  guilty !  There  can 
be  no  doubt  of  this.  It  is  as  certain  as  that  two  and  two  make  four.  The 
papers  captured  on  him  within  our  lines  would  reveal  enough  to  General 
Lee  and  General  Jackson  to  crush  our  cause  and  place  Washington  in  the 
hands  of  the  Richmond  administration.  I  beg  of  you — the  Army  of  the 
Potomac  begs  of  you! — to  do  justice  and  send  this  Confederate  spy  to  his 
death.  If  you  do  not,  Mr.  President,  a  link  in  our  chain  of  military  law  is 
broken.  That  chain  is  helping  to  hold  together  our  stricken  Union.  Mr. 
President,  the  Union  appeals  to  you ! 

Lincoln  (musing):  And  the  Union  appeals  to  me?  In  the  Army 
they  are  beginning  to  understand  my  psychology.  And  (to  the  officer)  the 
appeal  is  not  in  vain.    As  far  as  I  can,  I  promise!    I  shall  fix  stern  justice 


44 


before  my  eyes  and  remember  your  military  chain  that  holds  together  this 
stricken  Union — yes,  Union !  If  a  thing  is  done  quickly  while  the  stoniness 
is  in  my  heart — and  the  Union ! — I  am  very  unrelenting.  A  great  philos- 
opher said  that  the  three  hardest  things  in  the  world  were  steel,  a  diamond 
and  to  know  one's  self.  I  promise  to  be  a  thing  of  diamond-pointed  steel 
in  such  a  case  as  this  and  to  know  myself  well  enough  to  save  our  holy 
cause  from  myself.    Where  is  the  culprit?    Let  this  thing  be  got  over  at 


once 


Officer:     He  is  under  guard  in  the  hall.     With  your  leave,  Mr. 
President,  I  shall  have  him  brought  to  you  here. 
Lincoln:     Yes,  I  am  ready. 

The  officer  has  the  guard  bring  in  the  Confederate  soldier.  He  is 
a  young  fellow  about  twenty  years  old.  His  left  arm  is  in  a  bloodstained 
sling.  His  eyes  are  blue  and  his  hair  light.  He  has  the  bearing  of  a  sol- 
dier and  a  gentleman. 

Officer:  Mr.  President,  this  is  the  spy  that  a  strange  influence 
sent  before  Your  Excellency  pleading  for  clemency. 

Soldier:  I  am  not  seeking  clemency.  I  am  not  guilty  of  being  a 
spy.  But,  if  my  commanding  officer  had  sent  me  out  as  one,  I  would  have 
played  the  game  to  the  end  of  the  string.  I  did  not  ask  to  come  here.  I 
was  sent  here,  Mr.  President,  by  somebody's  request  or  demand.  I  do  not 
understand  it  all.  I  have  nothing  to  beg  for.  I  have  nothing  to  say,  but 
that  I  am  not  guilty  of  this  charge.  I  am  ready  to  go  now  and  be  hung 
or  shot,  but  I  am  not  ready  to  beg  or  to  whimper. 
Lincoln:     Boy,  how  old  are — 

Officer:  Mr.  President!  Mr.  President!  the  man  asks  for  nothing, 
and  so,  under  military  law,  his  case  is  closed  and  the  judgment  of  the  court 
stands  for  immediate  execution. 

Lincoln:  Yes,  the  judgment  stands  and  our  military  chain  around 
the  Union  must  remain  unbroken — yes,  unbroken!  But,  boy,  tell  how 
this  thing  of  the  papers  being  on  you  in  our  lines  came  about.  You  had 
the  papers  and  you  were  in  the  Federal  lines.  Those  papers  in  the  hands 
of  your  commander  spelt  ruin  for  the  Army  of  the  Potomac. 

Soldier:  Mr.  President,  the  story  is  a  short  and  simple  one.  I  am 
going  to  stretch  hemp  or  look  down  the  barrels  of  a  dozen  firing-squad 
rifles  before  this  day  is  over.  Nothing  can  save  me,  and  I  know  it.  Again 
I  say  that  I  am  not  begging  anybody  for  anything.  Those  papers  came 
into  my  hands  by  reason  of  the  fact  that  I  captured  them.  I  am  a  Confed- 
erate cavalryman.  With  a  body  of  cavalry — a  small  body — I  was  sent  to 
raid  and  cut  your  communications.  We  worked  far  to  your  rear  and  lost 
all  contact  with  our  own  forces.  We  fought  day  and  night.  We  foraged 
on  your  captured  and  burning  supply  trains.  We  were  the  seeing  eyes 
and  the  destroying  arms  of  our  army.  Our  dead,  buried  on  our  venture- 
some road  to  the  isolation  of  your  rear,  left  us  too  weak  to  complete  our 

45 


plans.  We  were  not  spies.  We  were  raiders.  At  dawn  one  day,  we 
spurred  our  tired  mounts  at  the  pickets  around  one  of  your  brigade  head- 
quarters. We  drove  the  pickets  in  and  captured  the  headquarters. 
I  seized  a  haversack  filled  with  papers  and  strapped  it  to  my  back. 
Your  cavalry  rallied  in  overpowering  numbers  and  our  tired  men 
and  horses  were  swept  away.  I  was  wounded  here  in  the  shoulder. 
Scarcely  a  man  of  my  troop  escaped.  I  lost  a  great  deal  of  blood  and  was 
very  weak.  I  lay  concealed  beneath  the  hay  in  a  great  barn  of  a  plantation 
home.  An  old  negro — God  bless  him! — brought  me  food  and  water  at 
night.  My  wound  was  stiffening  my  left  arm.  I  was  determined  to  escape 
if  possible.  The  Federal  lines  were  drawn  tightly  around  my  hiding  place 
and  the  plantation  home  was  their  corps  headquarters.  The  old  negro 
begged  me  to  wear  a  long,  blue  cloak,  and,  in  this,  to  make  a  break  for 
liberty.  I  wore  this  blue  cloak,  and,  seizing  the  horse  of  one  of  your 
troopers,  I  made  the  effort  on  a  dark  and  misty  night.  The  horse  stumbled 
in  the  road  as  I,  lying  low  in  the  saddle  to  escape  your  fire,  dashed  by  your 
outposts.  I  was  captured.  Thus  I  am  here.  The  haversack  of  papers 
was  strapped  to  my  back.  I  captured  them  in  fair  combat.  I  was  escap- 
ing from  your  lines  by  the  only  means  open  to  me.  Technically,  they  tell 
me,  I  was  a  spy  for  wearing  even  a  blue  cloak  for  a  moment  within  your 
lines.  That  may  be,  but  I  did  not  spy  out  or  spyingly  get  those  papers.  I 
fought  for  them  and  won  them.    That  is  my  story.    All  that  I  say  is  true. 

Officer:  Mr.  President,  thus  runs  the  plausible  story  of  them  all. 
The  blue  cloak  was  to  simulate  our  uniform.  He  wore  this  cloak,  bore 
upon  his  person  these  vital  papers,  and  was  in  our  lines.  These  three 
points  he  admits.  He  is  speaking  in  self-defense.  Thus  we  may  expect 
defensive  fables.  These  things  are  common  in  the  service.  Stern  meas- 
ures with  enemy  spies  in  these  crucial  times  must  be  maintained  or  a  leak- 
ing secret  will  bring  destruction  upon  the  Union — the  Union!  Mr.  Presi- 
dent! 

Lincoln:     Yes,  yes,  the  Union!  the  Union! 

Officer:  Will  you  endorse  your  refusal  to  interfere  upon  the  writ- 
ten charge  and  specifications? 

Lincoln:  Yes,  this  soldier  must  die.  I  will  stand  firm  as  frozen 
stone  this  time.  The  Union  must  survive — quick  about  finishing  this  busi- 
ness, please! 

Officer:  This  is  the  copy  of  the  charge  and  specifications  on  which 
you  are  to  sign,  Mr.  President  (giving  the  paper  to  Lincoln). 

Lincoln  (reading  and  remaining  silent — dropping  the  paper — look- 
ing up  sadly  and  speaking  slowly) :  Boy,  your  name  is  Edward  Rutledge, 
and  you  are  from  Carolina? 

Soldier:     Yes,  Mr.  President. 

Lincoln:     How's  Cynthia? 

Soldier:     How's  Cynthia? 


Lincoln:     Yes,  boy,  how's  Cynthia? 

Soldier:  Mr.  President,  I  don't  understand.  The  only  Cynthia 
that  I  know  is  my  sister  Anne's  blessed  old  mammy.  She  is  a  wonderful 
old  black  woman.  She  lives  with  Sister  Anne,  who  has  never  married  and 
who  still  bears  our  name  of  Rutledge.  But  how  can  all  this  apply  to  my 
cause  here? 

Lincoln:     And,  boy,  where  is  your  sister  Anne? 

Soldier:  She  is  nursing  the  Confederate  wounded  at  St.  Andrew's 
Hospital  at  Richmond,  and  Mammy  Cynthia  is  with  her. 

Lincoln  (abstractedly) :  I  wonder — wonder — if  this  Anne  from 
Carolina  held  true  to  type  and  showed  the  blue  sky  in  her  eyes  and  the 
color  of  the  waving,  golden  prairie-wheat  in  her  hair! 

Soldier:  Mr.  President,  I  still  do  not  understand,  but  my  sister 
Anne  was,  and  still  is,  a  very  beautiful  woman,  and  her  eyes  are  blue,  and, 
where  a  very  few  threads  of  silver  have  not  come,  her  hair  is  golden. 

Lincoln:     Is  your  father,  Mr.  Edward  Rutledge,  living? 

Soldier:  No,  Mr.  President,  he  was  killed  in  action  before  the  City 
of  Mexico  in  storming  Chapultepec. 

Lincoln:  Did  Cynthia  ever  tell  you  of  the  Spaniard  that  held  her 
captive  and  of  how  your  father  and  others  rescued  her  at  New  Orleans? 

Soldier:  Yes,  Mr.  President,  even  now  Sister  Anne  makes  her  tell 
the  story  of  how  a  great  giant  from  the  far-away  settlements  raised  this 
Spaniard  above  his  head,  and  threw  him  across  the  old  French  canal  and 
through  the  window  of  a  shop  on  the  other  side. 

Lincoln,  burying  his  face  in  his  hands,  laughs  softly  and  heartily. 
Then  he  looks  up. 

Lincoln:  Well,  boy,  it  isn't  written  among  the  stars  anywhere 
that  you  could  or  would  lie.  It  isn't  in  your  breed.  Your  version  of  this 
spy  business  is  correct.  I  disapprove  the  finding  of  the  court  martial  and 
order  that  you  be  held  as  an  honorable  prisoner  of  war  until  duly  and 
properly  exchanged. 

Scene  IX. 
THE  STRUGGLE 

Lincoln's  own  private  room  at  the  White  House.  It  is  midnight 
and  the  battle  of  Chancellor sville  is  raging  within  sixty  miles  of  Washing- 
ton. Dispatches  show  the  Federal  Army  staggering,  and  almost  broken 
by  Lee  and  Jackson.  Deep  depression  marks  this  darkest  hour  of  the  strug- 
gle for  the  Union.  Lincoln  paces  back  and  forth  in  the  lonely  silence  of 
his  chamber.    Only  a  dim  light  is  in  the  room.    Colonel  Hay  enters. 

Lincoln:     Dispatches!  dispatches!  Hay? 

Hay:  Yes,  Mr.  President,  dispatches  that  say  our  line  at  Chan- 
cellorsville  wavers,  and  again  that  it  breaks,  and  still  again  that  it  re-forms 

47 


and  holds,  and  once  more  that  it  falls  back  and  again  rallies  and  stands 
almost  buried  in  its  own  wreckage,  until  it  yields  and  crumbles  as  the  red 
tide  of  disaster  comes  on.  Shall  I  read  all  of  the  dark  dispatches  to  you 
(holding  them  in  his  hand)  ? 

Lincoln:  No!  No!  Hay.  Just  sit  there  and  let  me  alone  while  I 
pace  this  floor.  My  heart  is  deeply  stricken  tonight.  I  want  the  dawn  to 
come,  and  yet  I  am  afraid  of  that  that  the  dawn  may  bring  to  my  country. 
Hay,  you  are  young  and  I  am  somewhat  old,  but  you  understand  me.  You 
pardon  me — I  know  you  do — for  sometimes  playing  the  unpresidential  role 
of  Mark  Tapley.  Mark,  you  know,  could  never  find  a  situation  where  his 
optimism  would  not  pervade  him  and  his  surroundings.  At  last  he  and 
Martin  Chuzzlewit  came  to  that  place  Eden,  away  up  a  muddy,  remote, 
subtropical,  fever-haunted,  death-stricken  river,  where  they  were  cast 
ashore  in  a  swamp  to  find  their  building  lot  and  construct  their  abode. 
Martin  came  down  with  the  fever.  The  few  settlers  died  in  their  huts. 
Martin  and  Mark  were  penniless,  and  the  steamboat  was  not  to  crawl  that 
way  again  for  three  months.  One  night,  this  optimist,  Mark  Tapley,  stood 
on  the  black-slime  bank  of  the  rotting  river  and,  looking  up  at  the  sickly, 
sodden  moon,  struck  his  breast  and  thus  spoke  to  himself :  "Now,  Mr.  Tap- 
ley,  just  you  attend  to  what  I've  got  to  say.  Things  is  looking  as  bad  as 
they  can  look,  young  man.  You'll  not  have  such  another  opportunity  for 
showing  your  jolly  disposition,  my  fine  fellow,  as  long  as  you  live.  And 
therefore,  Tapley,  now's  your  time  to  come  out  strong;  or  never!"  Ah, 
John  Hay,  you  do  forgive  Abraham  Lincoln  for  making  this  one,  lonely, 
last,  lingering  pull  at  his  old  well — now  seemingly  going  dry — to  cheer 
his  spirit  and  yours? 

Hay:  Yes,  Mr.  President,  I  understand!  I  understand! 
Lincoln:  I  know  you  do,  Hay,  and  I  want  you  to  help  me.  You  are 
a  man  of  books  and  much  learning.  Do  you  remember  old  Weem's  Life  of 
George  Washington,  and  that  place  in  the  book  where  there's  a  picture  of 
Washington,  down  by  the  creek  at  Valley  Forge  upon  his  knees  in  the 
snow,  praying  God  to  come  down  into  that  frozen,  starved,  sickened,  blood- 
soaked  valley  of  disaster  and  open  a  road  through  the  ice-barrier  of  hope- 
lessness to  some  even  chance  for  the  salvation  of  American  liberty? 

Hay:  Yes,  Mr.  Lincoln,  that  picture  and  its  story  were  an  inspira- 
tion to  my  boyhood. 

Lincoln:  That  was  a  brave  old  prayer  of  a  brave  old  heart  out 
there  in  the  snow,  with  odds  of  a  hundred  to  one  against  its  cause.  I 
read  that  Weems  book  once  down  by  a  creek  on  a  snowy  day  in  Illinois,  and 
I  couldn't  help  practicing  the  snow-prayer  end  of  it  when  nobody  was  look- 
ing and  I  saw  a  fine  snow-cushion  right  in  front  of  me  with  a  fallen  sapling 
for  a  chancel  rail.  Hay,  that  prayer  of  Washington  in  the  snow  of  despair 
is  to  me  a  never-ending  source  of  study  and  speculation.  Sometimes  my 
mental  picture  of  it  is  one  of  tenderness.    Sometimes  it  is  one  of  that  an- 


cient  sacrifice,  a  broken  and  a  contrite  heart.  And  sometimes  it  is  the 
rough  picture  of  the  backwoodsman,  who,  meeting  an  angry  and  advanc- 
ing bear,  prayed  for  help,  and,  when  his  prayer  did  not  seem  to  be  bring- 
ing immediate  results,  cried  out  bravely :  "Oh  Lord,  if  you  won't  help  me, 
please  don't  help  the  bear,  and  stand  aside,  and  you'll  see  the  damnedest 
bear-fight  that  ever  took  place  west  of  Cumberland  Gap." 

Hay:  That  indomitable  spirit  of  courage  in  the  backwoodsman 
was  the  answer  to  his  prayer,  Mr.  Lincoln,  if  I  be  not  mistaken. 

Lincoln:  That's  it,  Hay,  that's  it!  Answers  don't  always  come 
labeled.  But  they  are  answers,  just  the  same.  Things  that  are  labeled 
lose  something  of  their  fineness.  Washington  got  his  answer  to  the  snow- 
prayer  by  that  Something  that  answers  prayer  creating  in  him  the  name- 
less, unlabeled  spirit  of  fortitude  that  carried  him  through  to  Yorktown. 
Hay:  Mr.  President,  things  transpiring  this  night  call  for  pray- 
ers. Let  those  prayers  be  that  this  Something  that  answers  prayers  will 
give  to  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  that  unlabeled  thing  that  the  bear-fight- 
ing backwoodsman  had. 

Lincoln:  Hay,  I  shall  not  go  near  my  bed  tonight.  I  may  catch  an 
hour  of  sleep  in  this  big  chair.  Go  and  get  what  sleep  you  can.  Don't  let 
them  come  in  upon  me  unless  the  news  is  vastly  important  and  demands 
action  of  some  sort  by  the  President.  As  you  go  out,  won't  you  ask  that 
Irish  soldier,  the  orderly,  to  come  in  for  a  moment? 

Hay  retires  and  Pat,  the  orderly,  comes  in.  Lincoln  is  slowly 
pacing  the  floor. 

Pat  (at  attention  and  saluting) :     An'  sor,  Oi'm  ready. 
Lincoln:     Pat,   have  them   bring  my  coffee  at   daybreak.     Keep 
everybody  away  tonight  except  Colonel  Hay.     If  I  need  you,  I  shall  pull 
that  cord  that  rings  the  bell  on  the  landing.    Good  night,  Pat ! 

Pat:  Goodnight,  Mist'rr  Prisidint,  an'  ahrl  the  saints  guard  an' 
bliss  ye ! 

Pat  goes  out.  Lincoln  is  alone  pacing  the  floor.  He  goes  to  a 
bookcase  and,  taking  out  a  book,  moves  near  the  dim  light.  He  opens  the 
book. 

Lincoln:     Weems — old  Weems! 

He  puts  the  book  down  and,  with  his  hands  folded  behind  him  and 
his  head  bent,  he  continues  to  pace  the  floor. 

Lincoln  (continuing):  Yes,  the  ice  was  thick  in  the  Delaware 
River,  and  he  only  got  across  in  the  darkness  with  about  twenty-five  hun- 
dred men.  Then  he  struck  like  an  eagle.  He  must  have  been  hiding  out 
somewhere  praying.  And  again  they  thought  that  they  had  trapped  him 
in  the  angle  between  the  Delaware  and  the  Assunpink,  and  their  couriers 
went  out  with  the  glad  news  that  the  trap  would  be  sprung  without  fail  at 
daylight.  But,  at  the  very  crack  of  dawn,  his  guns  sounded  miles  in  their 
rear.     Ah,  George  Washington  was  a  praying  bear-fighter.     It  is  three 

49 


o'clock  (looking  at  the  clock  on  the  mantel)  and  I  ought  to  sleep  for  an 
hour,  if  I  can,  in  this  great  chair. 

He  lies  down  wearily  in  the  armchair  and,  stretching  out,  throws 
a  large  handkerchief  over  his  face.  All  is  still  for  a  moment.  Then  every- 
thing goes  dark.  In  a  moment,  dimly  light  again.  The  slumbering  LIN- 
COLN (by  means  of  an  identical  figure)  is  in  the  chair  with  the  handker- 
chief over  his  face.  A  standing  LINCOLN  is  gazing  at  the  wall  where  a 
panel  or  door  has  opened,  revealing,  in  mystic  lights  and  forms,  Washing- 
ton down  on  his  knees  in  the  snow  by  the  creek  at  Valley  Forge.  The  mys- 
tic lights  pervade  everything — the  waking  and  the  sleeping  LINCOLN.  The 
standing  form  stretches  out  his  hand  and  slowly  advances  toward  the 
vision.  Not  a  word  is  spoken.  Then  everything  goes  dark  again,  and,  in 
a  moment,  light  once  more.  There  is  Lincoln  asleep  in  the  chair.  He 
stirs.  He  draws  the  handkerchief  away.  He  sits  up  and  strains  his  eyes 
looking  toward  the  place  in  the  wall  where  the  vision — now  entirely  gone 
— appeared.  He  gets  up  and  goes  over  to  the  place  and  inspects  it.  Then 
he  begins  pacing  to  and  fro.  He  stops  and  is  lost  in  meditation.  He  goes 
to  the  cord  that  rings  the  bell  for  the  orderly.  He  hesitates  and  then  rings. 
The  orderly  comes  in,  and,  standing  at  attention,  salutes  as  usual. 

Pat:     Mist'rr  Prisidint,  Oi'm  ready. 

Lincoln:     Pat,  it's  a  pretty  warm  night  outside,  isn't  it? 

Pat:  An'  Mist'rr  Prisidint,  the  month  o'  May  is  about  forestallin' 
the  month  o'  August. 

Lincoln:  And,  Pat,  could  you  get  me  a  big  bucket  or  basket  of 
snow? 

Pat  (disturbed) :  Howly  Hivins  swallow  me  oop !  an'  be  ye  crackin' 
a  prisidintial  joke  betwain  three  an'  four  in  the  marrnin'? 

Lincoln:  No,  Pat,  not  exactly.  But  I  wish  you  would  bring  me  a 
basket  or  bucket  of  shaved  ice.  They  keep  ice  that  comes  for  the  hospitals 
off  the  New  England  schooners  in  the  cellar  of  the  White  House. 

Pat  (mumbling  as  he  retires) :  Brain  faever,  I  be  thinkin',  comes 
from  hot  wither  an'  warr  news. 

Lincoln  continues  pacing  the  floor.  He  goes  to  the  door  of  a  closet 
and,  opening  it,  leaves  it  open.  He  resumes  his  pacing  to  and  fro.  The 
orderly  returns  with  a  bucket  of  shaved  ice  and  places  it  on  the  floor  near 
Lincoln. 

Pat  (at  attention  and  saluting) :     Mist'rr  Prisidint,  Oi'm  ready. 

Lincoln:     Pat,  you  are  back  in  a  hurry. 

Pat:  Yis,  Mist'rr  Prisidint,  Oi  foun'  a  chunk  o'  ice  as  big  as  a  bar- 
rel an'  Oi  shaved  it  with  a  drawin'  knife. 

Lincoln:  Thank  you,  Pat,  take  your  post  on  the  landing,  and,  if  I 
need  you,  I  shall  ring. 

Pat  goes  out.  Lincoln  takes  two  more  turns  up  and  down  the 
room.    He  lifts  the  bucket  of  shaved  ice  and  hesitates.    He  takes  it  to  the 

50 


closet  door  and  hesitates  again.  He  listens  intently.  Then,  carrying  the 
bucket  of  ice,  he  quickly  enters  the  closet  and  closes  the  door.  The  stage 
is  empty  and  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  Pat  excitedly  rushes  into  the  room. 
Hay  closely  folloivs  the  orderly  and  carries  a  dispatch  in  his  hand. 

Hay:     Pat,  where  is  the  President? 

Pat:  An'  faith,  sor,  he  be  sendin'  me  for  a  bucket  o'  snow  or 
shaved  ice,  an'  whin  Oi  brought  it,  thanked  me  an'  that's  all  Oi  be  knowin'. 

Hay:     Snow  or  shaved  ice? 

Pat:     Yis,  sor,  first  snow  an'  thin,  whin  no  snow,  some  shaved  ice. 

Hay  (slowly  and  thoughtfully) :  Snow?  Yes — snow!  Pat,  I'll 
call  you  if  I  need  you. 

Pat  leaves  the  room.  Hay  stands  listening.  Then  he  goes  softly 
to  the  closet  door  and  listens  again. 

Hay  (continuing) :     Valley  Forge  and  the  snow ! 

Hay  then  places  the  dispatch  on  Lincoln's  table,  arranged  so  that 
it  will  be  seen  at  once,  and  softly  retires.  In  a  moment  LINCOLN  emerges 
from  the  closet  and  his  knees  are  wet.  He  advances  to  the  table  and  finds 
the  dispatch. 

Lincoln  (reading  the  dispatch  aloud): — 

President  Lincoln,  Washington.  As  the  enemy  continued  his  irresistible  advances 
against  us  at  midnight,  General  Stonewall  Jackson  fell  mortally  wounded  under  the  fire 
of  his  own  men  delivered  by  mistake.  Joseph  Hooker,  Commanding  General  Army  of 
the  Potomac. 

Lincoln  advances  to  the  window,  and,  throwing  aside  the  great 
curtains,  the  dawn  streams  in.  He  stands  thoughtfully  looking  out  into 
the  White  House  grounds. 

Lincoln  (quoting  Whittier): 

God   works  in  all  things;    all  obey 

His  first  propulsion  from  the  night: 

Wake  thou  and  watch! — the  world  is  gray  with  morning  light. 

Scene  X. 
THE  VICTORY 

Lincoln,  on  his  visit  to  Richmond,  the  capital  of  the  Confederacy, 
two  days  after  its  evacuation,  is  standing  near  the  equestrian  statue  of 
Washington,  with  the  view  across  the  James  toward  the  South  showing. 
Colonel  Hay  is  with  him.  The  presence  of  Lincoln  in  the  city  is  un- 
known. He  is  wearing  a  great  gray  shawl  and  a  soft  black  hat.  He  keeps 
apart  from  the  few  people  who  seem  to  be  abroad  in  the  stricken  and  par- 
tially deserted  city. 

Hay:  And,  Mr.  President,  the  great  struggle  is  over,  and  govern- 
ment of  the  people  for  the  people  and  by  the  people  has  not  perished  from 
the  earth. 

Lincoln:     Yes,  Hay,  we  may  say  that  this  great  struggle  is  over, 

51 


but  one  struggle  in  the  life  of  a  people  follows  another,  so  that  there  is 
little  or  no  rest  for  the  weary. 

Hay:     Do  you  mean  Johnston's  Confederate  army  in  Carolina? 

Lincoln:  No,  that  will  surrender  soon.  Its  days  are  few.  But  the 
other  struggle  that  I  am  talking  about  is  that  of  avarice  and  plunder  and 
revenge,  in  our  own  house,  meeting  prejudice  and  blindness  and  blood- 
crime  in  the  house  of  the  crushed  and  defeated.  It  is  the  bitter,  sullen  and 
inflamed  South,  confronted  by  the  wrong  sort  of  politicians  from  our  side, 
that  we  must  contend  with.  We  used  the  Golden  Rule  upon  the  South  in 
making  a  whip  of  cords  and  keeping  it  from  despoiling  the  temple  of  the 
Union.  Now  then,  Hay,  how  high  is  going  to  be  the  gallows  on  which  our 
own  politicians  will  hang  me,  or  how  cruel  the  cross  on  which  they  will 
crucify  me,  when  I  journey  from  Jerusalem  to  Jericho  and  find  a  fellow  in 
a  ragged,  gray  uniform,  wounded,  misguided,  forlorn,  and,  binding  up  his 
wounds,  bring  him  on  our  national  beast  to  the  inn  of  his  fathers  and  our 
fathers?  Hay!  Hay!  what  are  my  own  politicians  going  to  do  to  me,  if  I 
send  out  and  have  even  the  littlest,  meanest,  thinnest  and  measliest  calf 
killed  for  our  Southern  son  that  was  dead  and  is  alive  again  and  was  lost 
and  is  found  ?  And  Hay !  Hay !  what  are  the  bitter,  selfish  and  understand- 
ingless  politicians  at  the  South  going  to  do  to  my  groping  hand  held  out  to 
their  stricken  States? 

Hay:  Possibly  all  unite  and  boil  you  in  oil,  Mr.  President.  But 
their  children  will  build  your  tomb. 

Lincoln:  I  meant  what  I  said,  when  I  told  the  people  of  the  North, 
as  well  as  of  the  South,  that,  if  God  willed  it,  the  war  should  go  on  until  all 
the  wealth  piled  up  by  the  bondsman's  centuries  of  toil  should  be  sunk  and 
until  every  drop  of  blood  drawn  by  the  lash  should  be  paid  for  by  another 
drawn  by  the  sword.  Yet,  Hay,  I  also  meant  what  I  said,  when  I  told  the 
Southern  people  that  we  were  not  enemies  but  friends ;  that  we  must  not 
be  enemies ;  that  though  passion  may  strain,  it  must  not  break  the  bonds  of 
affection ;  and  that  the  mystic  chords  of  our  common  memory  should  swell 
the  chorus  of  the  Union  when  touched  by  the  better  angels  of  our  nature. 

Hay:  Mr.  President,  you  may  be  able — I  say  may  be  able — to  throw 
against  the  background  of  an  inexorable  war  of  justice  the  color  scheme 
of  kindly  love  and  mystic  sympathy,  and  save  the  harmonious  picture  from 
the  iconoclasm  of  the  Northern  and  the  Southern  politicians.  If  anybody 
on  God's  earth  can  do  this,  Mr.  Lincoln,  you  can.  They  say  that  the  right 
sort  of  a  man  is  one  who  can  walk  in  life's  procession,  and  yet  sit  in  a  re- 
served seat  and  see  himself  go  by.  This  you  can  do,  Mr.  President,  be- 
cause the  New  Englander  in  you  can  sit  on  Plymouth  Rock  and  see  the 
Virginian  in  you  going  South,  and  the  Virginian  in  you  can  sit  at  Cumber- 
land Gap  and  see  the  Kentuckian  in  you  going  West,  and  the  Kentuckian 
in  you  can  sit  on  the  banks  of  the  Ohio  and  see  the  Illinoisian  in  you  treck- 
ing  toward  the  prairies  and  the  setting  sun. 

52 


Lincoln :     Transfusion  ? 

Hay:     Yes,  transfusion. 

Lincoln:  You  have  heard  the  story  of  how  I  licked  Jack  Arm- 
strong at  Clary's  Grove  in  fair  fight  unto  his  own  good,  and  how  Jack 
realized  that  the  fight  was  fair  and  the  licking  good  for  him,  and  in  after 
life  gave  to  me  all  the  warmth  of  his  big  heart  and  support  of  his  strong 
hand.  My  God !  Hay,  when  they  have  done  with  me  and  have  planted  my 
old,  rattling  bones  on  the  golden  prairie  beneath  the  blue  sky,  the  thing  I 
want  most  of  all  is  this:  That  a  great  delegation  of  prosperous  Johnny 
Rebs,  from  the  lands  that  lie  between  the  Potomac  and  the  Rio  Grande, 
shall  come  out  to  my  grave  and  plant  on  it  a  plain  slab  of  Georgia  marble 
upon  which  shall  be  graven  these  words :  "Damn  his  eyes ! — he  made  Jack 
Armstrongs  of  us  all." 

Hay  (turning  quickly):  But,  just  a  moment,  Mr.  President,  here 
comes  something  that  the  Calif  Haroun  Al-Raschid  Lincoln  and  his  Grand 
Vizier  Hay  do  not  find  every  night  in  every  American  Bagdad.  It  looks 
to  me  like  a  real  black  mammy. 

A  typical  negro  mammy,  walking  just  a  little  bent  and  using  a  gold- 
headed  cane,  comes  and  is  about  to  pass  Lincoln  and  Hay,  dropping  at 
curtsy  as  she  passes. 

Lincoln:  Good  morning,  my  good  woman,  and  it's  a  fine  April  day, 
if  it  doesn't  rain  and  nothing  happens. 

Mammy:  Sarvan'  Marsters!  It  ain'  gwine  t'  rain,  an'  Ah  prays 
Gawd  dat  nothin'  mo  is  gwine  V  happ'n  dan  is  happ'n'd. 

Lincoln:     Do  you  know  places  and  how  to  find  them  in  this  city? 

Mammy:     Yas,  sur,  Ah  been  here  nigh  onto  fo'  years. 

Lincoln:  Can  you  tell  me  where  St.  Andrew's  Hospital  is,  and  how 
to  go  there? 

Mammy:  Kin  Ah  tell  yer?  Kin  Ah  tell  yer?  Well,  Ah  'spec'  Ah 
kin.  Ah  been  livin'  dar  all  de  time  takin'  kere  my  chile,  Miss  Anne,  dat 
work  herse'f  t'  de  bone  night  an'  day  nursin'  de  wounded  soldiers  fum  de 
battlefields. 

Lincoln  (shading  his  eyes  and  looking  at  Mammy):  Your  child, 
Miss  Anne? 

Mammy:  Yas,  sur,  an'  she  de  blessedess  chile  on  de  top  side  o'  dis 
here  worl'. 

Lincoln:  And  has  your  child  eyes  that  are  blue  like  the  sky  over 
the  prairie  and  hair  that  is  yellow  like  the  waving  wheat? 

Mammy:  Ah  ain'  know  nuthin'  'bout  no  prairie  an'  no  wheat,  but 
dis  Ah  know,  dat  de  blue  eyes  o'  my  chile  is  bluer  dan  de  deepes'  blue  o'  de 
mornin'  glory,  an'  her  hair  is  lak  de  yaller  gold  tassels  o'  de  corn.  'Cep'in' 
she  worry  an'  work  so  much  wid  de  soldiers,  an'  a  few  stran's  o'  silver  is 
mixin'  wid  de  corn  tassels  on  her  blessed  haid.  'Tain't  'cause  she  gittin' 
ole — nor  sur ! — she  ain'  never  gwine  t'  git  ole — Miss  Anne  ain't — an'  in  de 

53 


en'  de  good  Lawd  is  gwine  t'  ketch  her  up  t'  de  heab'ns  in  er  lovely  chariot 
wid  sunflowers  fer  wheels  an'  mockin'  birds  fer  horses  an'  jasmine  vines 
fer  harness. 

Lincoln:  Will  you  kindly  tell  us  how  to  reach  St.  Andrew's  Hos- 
pital? 

Mammy:  Yas,  sur,  Ah  tells  yer,  an'  Ah  would  be  dar  right  now 
'cep'in'  Miss  Anne,  my  chile,  done  gone  wid  de  hospital  part  o'  de  'Federate 
Gov'mint  t'  de  far  South,  an'  Ah  is  jes'  livin'  here,  till  she  sen'  fer  me,  wid 
one  o'  her  ole  friends,  Madame  Duchesne,  who  saved  Miss  Anne's  brudder 
f um  bein'  kilt  fer  a  spy  by  de  Yankees. 

Lincoln:  Never  mind,  we  have  changed  our  plans  and  won't  go  to 
St.  Andrew's  Hospital,  Cynthia. 

Mammy:     Fo'  de  Lawd's  sake!  an'  how  kum  yer  know  my  name? 

Lincoln:  Cynthia,  don't  you  remember  the  Spaniard  and  the 
backwoodsman  in  New  Orleans? 

Mammy:  Does  Ah  'member  dat  Spaniola?  Ef  Ah  could  git  m' 
han's  on  him  now,  I'd  buss  Mars  Edward's  cane  on  his  haid.  Does  Ah 
'member  dat  great,  big,  young  gen'man  fum  up  de  long  ribber  dat  stood 
more'n  eight  foot  tall  an'  dat  tuk  dat  Spaniola  an'  trow'd  him  clar  'cross 
de  Mississippi  ribber  (demonstrating  with  uplifted  arms  and  a  gigantic 
effort) — yas,  jus'  lak  dat! 

Lincoln  (pointing  to  Hay)  :     Well,  Cynthia,  there  is  that  Spaniard. 

Mammy  (grasping  her  cane  and  threateningly  starting  toward  Hay 
who  retreats  in  high  amusement  shared  by  Lincoln)  :  Ah  buss  Mars' 
Edward's  cane  on  yo'  haid!  Mars'  Edward  gimme  dis  here  cane,  'fo'  he 
went  'way  an'  got  kilt  in  de  Mexican  war,  an'  he  tole  me  never  t'  break  it 
'cep'n  Ah  break  it  on  dat  Spaniola's  haid.  Now,  is  you  dat  Spaniola?  Is 
yer? 

Hay  (laughing  with  Lincoln):  No!  no!  dear  Cynthia.  Put  on 
your  specs  and  look  at  me.  I  am  only  a  young  man,  and  your  Spaniard, 
by  this  time,  if  he  is  living,  must  be  sixty  or  seventy  years  old. 

Mammy  (relenting) :  Dat's  so.  Ah  broke  my  specs  an'  Ah  'low 
as  how  you  gen'mens  is  jes'  projekin'  wid  ole  Cynthia. 

Lincoln:     Hay,  let  me  speak  with  Cynthia  alone,  please. 

Hay:  Goodbye,  Cynthia,  if  I  ever  meet  your  Spaniard,  I'll  get  the 
giant  from  the  settlements  that  threw  him  across  the  Mississippi  to  toss 
him  across  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 

Mammy:     Goo'bye,  Marster,  an'  de  good  Lawd  go  wid  yer! 

Hay  leaves  Lincoln  and  Cynthia  alone. 

Lincoln:  Cynthia,  I  trust  you  with  a  great  secret  (going  close  to 
her  and  bending  over  to  ivhisper  something  in  her  ear). 

Mammy  (sinking  on  her  knees  while  LINCOLN  departs  hurriedly): 
Massa  Lincum !  Massa  Lincum !  an'  now  de  sweet  chariot  gwine  t'  swing 
low  t'  ketch  up  de  child'en  o'  de  covenant  t'  de  promise  Ian'  whar  dey  eat 
an'  never  git  hongry  an'  drink  an'  never  git  thirsty.  Massa  Lincum! 
Massa  Lincum! 

54 


Scene  XI. 
THE  MIGHT-HAVE-BEEN 

It  is  the  night  of  March  3,  1869.  The  place  is  Lincoln's  private 
room  at  the  White  House.  The  whole  scene  is  overcast  by  a  strange  and 
filmy  light,  or  half-light,  that  makes  it  unreal  and  throws  it  into  the  realm 
of  fancy  and  imagination.  On  the  next  day  Lincoln's  second  term  ends 
and  he  is  returning  to  private  life.  He  is  going  back  to  the  blue  sky  bend- 
ing down  over  the  golden  wheat  on  the  prairies,  as  the  "sailor,  home  from 
the  sea,  and  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill."  Lincoln  is  seated  at  his  desk 
arranging  papers  incident  to  his  departure  from  high  official  life.  Hay 
comes  softly  in.  Voices  and  other  sounds  are  muffled  and  subdued  in  har- 
mony with  the  unreality  of  the  whole  situation.  Yet  the  moods  and  dis* 
positions  of  Lincoln  and  Hay  are  unchanged. 

Lincoln:  Why,  Hay,  I'm  glad  you  are  back  from  Virginia.  How 
are  things  among  the  Southern  Governors  at  Richmond? 

Hay:  Their  convention  is  inspired  with  the  spirit  that  you  bore 
with  you  and  gave  out  everywhere,  and  the  returns  that  the  people  gave 
to  you,  on  your  trip  during  the  winter  through  the  South. 

Lincoln:  Yes,  in  giving  that  spirit  and  what  goes  with  it  and  in 
receiving  the  returns,  I  have  literally  had  to  walk  barefooted  on  the  burn- 
ing plowshares  of  partyism  and  postmasterism.  In  my  own  party,  re- 
strained plunderism  has  sought  to  break  the  bonds  of  its  restraint  and 
march  upon  me  as  professional  flagism.  In  the  opposition  party,  blind 
hatred  has  assailed  me  to  form  a  foundation  for  partisan  solidarity.  At 
times  a  voracious  lion  has  stalked  me  from  the  North  and  a  wounded,  but 
vicious,  tiger  has  lain  in  wait  for  me  in  the  South.  There  have  been  times 
when  my  own  politicians  cursed  me  for  killing  the  flea-bittenest  calf  in 
our  pasture  for  the  Southern  prodigal,  and  the  politicians  below  the  Poto- 
mac feared  and  distrusted  me  bearing  a  gift  of  veal.  That  day  at  Rich- 
mond, in  April,  1865,  when  you  and  I  talked  about  this  struggle,  we  didn't 
think  that  it  could  be  won.  But  it  has  been  won!  Results  came  rapidly 
this  winter,  and  both  sections  of  our  country  seemed  to  awaken  and  under- 
stand and  come  together  and  clasp  hands.  Refraternization  as  against 
Reconstruction  is  the  dominant  idea.  But,  Hay,  tell  me  about  the  conven- 
tion of  Southern  Governors  that  you  have  been  with  in  Richmond  for  the 
last  three  days. 

Hay:  I  was  entertained  by  Governor  Fitzhugh  Lee,  of  Virginia, 
and  his  other  guests  were  Governor  Zeb  Vance,  of  North  Carolina,  and 
Governor  Wade  Hampton,  of  South  Carolina. 

Lincoln  (brightening  in  his  old  way):  And  were  you  thrown  in- 
timately and  simultaneously  with  the  Governor  of  North  Carolina  and  the 
Governor  of  South  Carolina? 

Hay:     Yes,  quite  often. 

Lincoln:  Then,  good  friend,  in  the  name  of  human  speculation  and 
mortal  argumentation,  what  did  the  Governor  of  North  Carolina  say  to  the 
Governor  of  South  Carolina. 


55 


Hay:  They  were  disputing  about  whether  Andrew  Jackson  was 
born  in  North  Carolina  or  South  Carolina,  and  finaliy  Zeb  Vance,  the  Gov- 
ernor of  North  Carolina,  said  to  Wade  Hampton,  the  Governor  of  South 
Carolina :  "Well,  Wade,  take  your  damned  old  Jackson  and  keep  him,  for 
we  Tar  Heels  have  found  out  that  Abraham  Lincoln's  mother  was  born 
in  North  Carolina,  and  so  we'll  quit  arguing  and  go  in  the  dining  room 
where  Fitz  Lee  is  standing  at  the  sideboard  making  signs  to  us." 

Lincoln  (softly  laughing):  I  am  glad  to  get  a  correct  version  of 
that  affair. 

Hay:  I  think,  Mr.  President,  that  a  great  era  of  good  feeling  has 
settled  down  upon  us.  You  cannot  escape  the  soft  impeachment  of  respon- 
sibility for  this.  Your  fight  has  been  made  and  won,  and  so  deep  and 
strong  are  the  foundations  of  your  policy  that  no  political  change  or 
pressure  can  affect  them. 

Lincoln:  So,  Hay,  some  of  these  days  it  is  possible — isn't  it? — 
that  those  old  Rebs  will  bring  to  my  prairie-grave  the  slab  that  shall  bear 
the  legend  damning  my  eyes  and  accusing  me  of  making  Jack  Armstrongs 
of  them  all. 

Hay:  You  don't  have  to  wait  for  a  prairie-grave  and  a  slab  of 
Georgia  marble,  Mr.  President.  The  convention  adjourned  at  Richmond 
today  to  meet  here  in  Washington  tomorrow,  where  the  eleven  Governors 
will  call  upon  you  immediately  after  your  successor  is  inaugurated  and 
almost  at  the  very  moment  when  you  return  to  private  life.  They  have 
prepared  and  unanimously  signed  an  official  testimonial  to  you  that  ex- 
presses, as  all  men  know,  the  true  sentiments  of  their  commonwealths. 
The  very  existence  and,  of  course,  the  contents  of  this  testimonial  are  to  be 
known  to  the  public  only  after  this  meeting  with  you  tomorrow.  Zeb  Vance, 
Governor  of  North  Carolina,  wrote  the  testimonial  and  consulted  me  as  to 
some  of  its  expressions  and  phraseology.  An  old  friend  of  yours,  Madame 
Duchesne,  was  present  and  the  testimonial  does  not  lack  a  contribution 
from  her  ideals  and  her  character.  Mr.  President,  to  one  who  has  known 
you  and  worked  with  you  and — let  me  say  it! — loved  you  as  I  have  these 
eight  years,  that  testimonial  is  a  thing  of  transcendent  grace.  Governor 
Vance,  of  course,  allowed  me  to  read  it  all.  Its  closing  expression  I  know 
by  heart.  If  I  can  keep  the  chokes  out  of  my  throat  (Lincoln  bends  his 
head  low  over  his  desk),  I'll  repeat  it  to  you.  These  are  its  words:  "And 
finally,  Mr.  Lincoln,  be  assured  that,  if  we  were  not  signing  as  eleven  Gov- 
ernors of  eleven  Southern  Commonwealths,  we  would  surely  sign  as  eleven 
Jack  Armstrongs,  voicing  the  sentiments  of  more  than  eleven  million 
other  Jack  Armstrongs  living  between  the  Potomac  and  the  Rio  Grande, 
for — God  bless  and  keep  you ! — you  have  made  Jack  Armstrongs  of  us  all." 

Lincoln's  head  sinks  and  is  buried  upon  his  arm  on  the  desk. 
Somethina  like  a  sob  shakes  his  great  frame. 

THE  END. 
56 


UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS-URBANA 
973.7L63H3D289T  C001 

TRANSFUSION  LOUISVILLE,  KY. 


3  0112  031824748 


